


Time and Tide

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, Community: hp_creatures, Consensual Sex, Creature Fic, Creature Hermione Granger, Dark, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, F/M, Forced Partnership, Gritty, HP Creature Fest 2020 - Quarantine Creature Comeback, Mild Gore, Prisoner of War, Selkie Hermione Granger, Selkies, Wartime, secondary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: While ferrying a message for the Order of the Phoenix, Hermione Granger is caught by jaded Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. Unlikely and unwilling allies, the pair begin a cross-country journey where their survival depends on learning when to stand strong against the elements’ fury, and when it’s acceptable to erode.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 136
Kudos: 227
Collections: Creature Fest 2020 - Quarantine Creature Comeback





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, Charlie9646, for the suggestions, encouragement, and beautiful cover art (omg!) Thanks to Inadaze22 and dreamsofdramione for workshopping the summary with me. Finally, thanks so much to DIG for running the fest and dealing with my abysmal time management.
> 
> My prompt was submitted by Tori_gingerfox: Draco finds out Hermione’s secret and steals something of hers. Hermione insists she is NOT A SIREN. A so-called pureblood should know better than confusing the two.
> 
> This creation is based on characters and situations from the Harry Potter universe. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offense is intended.

**Chapter 1**

Hermione Granger cut through the water on silent fins, as precise and sleek as an arrow.

She had been coming to the small fishing village of Helmsdale, Scotland regularly for six months now and knew its shoreline like she knew her own skin. Flat land surrounded the village, the coast boasting neither cliffs nor boulders. The harbor approached on her left. Its water curled into the ocean current she rode, a warm blanket no less inviting through it stank with the funk of algal growth and tasted faintly of petrol. She passed it without thought, however, angling herself half a mile east.

Her target was an abandoned house. She poked her head from the ocean’s gentle swells, both to breathe and to ensure that her location hadn’t been compromised.

Mist had rolled down from the highland in a gentle billow, wrapping the house like a gift. Its exterior paint was as gray as the fog, chipping in areas, and the weathered blue fencing that surrounded the property was sorely in need of a power washing. The roof, however, was in good condition, dark charcoal and sound. The ocean-facing porch had once featured a pair of rocking chairs and a small, central table, if the wear on the wood was any indication. When the light hit correctly, the lacy edges of curtains could be seen hanging across the windows.

It was a place someone had loved once. Cared for.

In another life, perhaps it could have been hers. Set off from the town, but not isolated. Ocean front with a private shore. Quiet save for the pounding waves, the call of seabirds, and the distant shouts and bells from the harbor. Maybe she’d have a companion—a man, a cat, a tern she’d rescued and brought up from a chick. The possibilities were endless, the temptation a tease.

Her fire smoke would never curl from the seaside cottage’s squat chimney. Light from her lamps would never flicker from behind those old lace curtains. The routine of setting out the rubbish bins or sweeping the sandy floors would never be hers to enjoy. She would never take a glass of wine on the porch and watch a storm cross the horizon, or take a man to her bed and watch a storm cross his eyes.

Hermione had known for most of her life that she was meant for something more than simple domesticity. In her youth, she’d imagined that this meant an important job: a professor; a Healer; the Minister for Magic. She’d thought she could at least have a taste of it, one hand on the lever of power, the other wiping drool from a baby’s face and tending the washing.

What she hadn’t realized was that a simple life had _never_ been an option. Not since she’d been cornered by a troll in a girl’s loo.

She slipped beneath the waves and broke free of the assisting current, trading speed for warmth as she entered the shallows. Stones pressed against her belly as she hauled herself onto the shore, sharp to human skin but barely noticeable beneath her thick layer of insulating fat. Unfortunately, the flesh that protected and buoyed her in the water turned into an anchor on land, and she had to heave herself across the beach. She moved in a rhythmic clatter, leaving a wide strip of displaced shore in her wake.

Behind the abandoned house, Hermione reached an area where rocks and sand turned to grass. There, she rolled onto her back, a practiced flip that dislodged one strap of the drawstring bag she had looped around each flipper. A second roll in the opposite direction freed her entirely. Hermione let her body find stillness in its own time. She had learned long ago not to force it.

Shedding her skin had never been easy. She’d been ashamed of the failing at first, but after seven years of struggle, she’d learned to appreciate the irony of it.

After all, Hermione had been fighting for her witch-skin since age eleven. She’d had to prove, over and over again, that she had a right to her power despite her heritage. That she deserved her magic and the privilege to use it just as much as a woman who could trace her lineage back generations. She had bled in it, defended it, loved and hated and lived in it. She _owned_ her witch-skin: it was her identity, and she had fully embraced it.

Until the Order of the Phoenix needed her to be something different.

Until Harry had asked her to sacrifice her hard-fought identity for something greater than either of them.

It had hardly been a choice. For her cause and for her friend, Hermione would do—would be—anything.

Even a Selkie.

Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She relaxed methodically, starting with the digits in her hind flippers. Tensing first, as tight as she could, then relaxing, letting her flippers fall limp onto the grass. She repeated the process with each ascending muscle group until she reached her neck. A deeper inhale this time, as if preparing for a dive, drawing from her diaphragm until her lungs pressed against her ribcage. She counted to thirty, holding her breath until the pressure in her sternum and her throat was nearly unbearable. Then, in a great, sighing _whoosh_ , she exhaled.

Her skin slipped away with the release, unfolding onto the grass around her. The September cold hit her at once. Her skin prickled, tightened, but she fought the urge to curl into herself for warmth. This was part of the reintegration process: a physical reminder of her witch-skin’s limitations and needs.

Nude, alone, and beginning to shiver, Hermione counted a full minute before sitting up. She reached beneath her shed sealskin, still warm from use, and retrieved her drawstring pack. The waterproofing charm had held, as expected, and she pulled it open. Her wool socks were folded on top. She pulled them on first. Her knickers were next, followed by a camisole with a shelf bra.

She grimaced as she pulled on her denims, disliking the feel of her hips, how the sharp crests of bone jutted from her skin. She’d had curves here, once. She’d been soft. Comfortable.

Luxuries of a different time.

Seven years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts ended in a stalemate. Five years since the war had turned from hot to cold, both sides regrouping after suffering a string of heavy losses. Physical battles had ceased. Now, wins were calculated based on the number of raids executed or supply lines disrupted. Hallows and Horcruxes had dissolved into discussions of philosophy; resource management and government control were more tangible indicators of success. Information exploitation and covert operations had their benefits: fewer people died, which improved the survivability of magical and Muggle worlds alike. But there were other consequences.

Food, for example, had become as much of a luxury as time. Hermione fared better than most thanks to her access to the sea. The fish she caught while traveling were enough to fuel her, but not much else.

It was a vain concern. She’d already sacrificed her identity to the cause, after all; what did the loss of her body matter in comparison? But she had yet to internalize the rationalization. She felt round and comfortable in her sealskin, with none of the aches or complaints that accompanied her witch-skin. Perhaps if the difference weren’t so stark, she wouldn’t feel the loss of her breasts, hips, and rear so keenly.

Perhaps one day she’d get back to a time when she felt comfortable with who she was.

But not today.

Hermione pulled a thick, knit jumper over her head, tied on her trainers, and finally donned a durable, olive green mac. She cast a quick warming charm to dispel the remaining chill, then knelt in the sand, her knees popping and sore from days of disuse.

Her sealskin lay before her, spread like a cloak across the dew-damp grass. The inside was red dun, the color of tender flesh and as soft and downy as a newborn baby’s. An inch of insulation separated the cloak’s inside from its outside, which was coated with dense, silvery-white fur speckled liberally with dark gray. When she wore it, she was indistinguishable from a mundane harbor seal.

Her witch-skin broke out in gooseflesh when she touched it. The connection between her two skins, her two selves, went deeper than musculature and nervous tissue. Handling her skin felt like being touched by a stranger. Invisible fingers caressed her back as she brushed sand and grass from the fur. Hands took her by the shoulders as she shook it out, then the waist as she folded it in half. A moment of claustrophobia descended as she tucked the skin into her pack, giving her the feeling of being held captive without hope of escape.

Hermione shoved the sensation aside, pulled the drawstrings tight, and hitched the bag across her shoulders. She used her wand to conceal the trail she’d left upon the shore and scrunched a hand into her hair to help the salt water set her curls.

She edged behind the house, keeping to the grass to minimize her tracks. The empty gravel drive gave way to potholed pavement: the aptly-named Shore Street. She walked past the harbor, where salmon fisherman by trade and hobby dipped in and out of the fog, readying their boats for the day’s work.

Muggle money jingled in her jacket pocket, a few notes lighter after her visit to the corner café for a hot bacon sandwich and a to-go cup of bitter black tea. Unhurried, she crossed the bridge that led out of town, to where the houses were large and generously spaced.

Hermione tossed her cup into a bin and, with a quick right-left look, broke from the paved street to cut through a well-kept rear garden. She hopped a fence and climbed the uneven hill that created a natural housing boundary. When she could no longer see the houses, she performed the first of three consecutive twists.

 _Crack_ , to the Wee Hoose on Loch Shin near Lairg.

 _Crack_ , to a patch of a woods in the Heights of Brae.

 _Crack_ , to Culloden clootie well.

She caught her balance against a tree, and the contact sent a prickle crawling up her spine. Tokens hung from every branch within arm’s reach, and a fair few that weren’t. They were left by the clootie well’s visitors, imbued with their hopes for healing and guidance. Strips of fine, colored cloth. Threadbare rags. Rosaries and small icons. War medals. Each left by a pilgrim who sought intercession from a higher power.

She took a breath and stepped quietly onto the forest trail, her shoulders tense, dipping and twisting to avoid unnecessary contact with the offerings. She understood why the Order liked this place as a dead drop site. It was guaranteed to be empty in the early morning, yet popular enough in the afternoon that Hestia Jones, their Inverness contact, could retrieve the message without arousing suspicion.

Still, it made her uneasy. The forest was thick, and despite there being no breeze, the tokens moved. They swayed, spun, and glinted in the growing light, setting her on edge. A Death Eater could be hiding in these woods, and she wouldn’t even see him until it was too late.

Surrounding the well was an incomplete circle of pitted stone. It reminded Hermione of a medieval fortress, with walls that stood eight feet tall and tight mortar joints to slow elemental weathering. A gap the width of two men standing abreast allowed access to the well itself.

She knelt beside the spring and, just for a moment, watched it run. Fresh water burbled from the earth, a phenomenon that felt entirely incongruous to the dense forest surrounding her. Though the well was no larger than her fist, she felt small beside it. Powerless against the slow machinations of the earth beneath her feet.

Beside the well, beneath the thick leaf litter, was a stone cut in one corner with a distinctive ‘V’. Dirt had been smeared into the man-made marks, disguising them from anyone who didn’t already know what they were looking for. She lifted the stone and ran her fingers across the wet-dirt bottom, feeling for the catch. She pressed in with the tip of her finger and whispered, “ _Ouvrir_.”

The matter beneath her finger dissolved with a tingle. She cupped her palm below it and waited.

Nothing.

Her heart fell, though it wasn’t unusual for Hestia to have no new intelligence. Inverness wasn’t exactly a high priority strategic location. It controlled no resources that could turn the tide of the war and housed no government that could be controlled to their ends. It was a way-station, an easy link between Edinburgh to the south and Hogwarts further north.

Even if Hestia had nothing new to report, Hermione did. She reached into the inner breast pocket of her mac and withdrew the missive entrusted to her by Kingsley Shacklebolt. She had taken it from London per his request. Hestia would deliver it further and, within the week, Minerva McGonagall would know its contents. In another week, Hermione would make the same run south with Minerva’s reply, bringing news of Hogwarts to the Order’s headquarters.

And so the cycle would continue until something worked to disrupt it.

She pushed the tightly rolled note into the stone and resealed it with a whispered, “ _Fermer_ ,” and covered it with leaf litter.

Something stilled her as she was about to stand. Maybe it was the shine of dawn light across the flowing water, or the breath of wind that could be heard but not felt, whispering through the tokens and echoing the fervent prayers made by the well’s supplicants.

Without examining why, Hermione pulled a strand of hair from her head and dipped it into the water. She held her hope foremost in her mind and walked to the nearest tree. With delicate movements, she tied the strand to a low-hanging branch, pressed her palm to the trunk, and closed her eyes.

“Let it end,” she whispered, her voice joining the grove’s echoing chorus. “Let it end, and let it be soon. Please.”

A breeze moved her hair. Maybe her wish had been granted.

Or maybe it was just the weather.

She looked up through the thinning canopy as if that could provide an answer. A few yellow leaves, loosed from their summer moorings, floated down around her.

Just the weather, then. She readjusted the straps of her pack and sighed. Ideas of prophecy and fate were convenient lies, absolving individuals from the consequences of their actions. Her wish to the well was that of a child’s: immature and naïve. Embarrassing, had anyone been around to witness it.

A twig snapped in the forest, and Hermione stilled. Her stomach dropped into her feet.

At the far end of the trail, sunk in shadow, stood a tall figure.

Her heart thrummed into a sprint.

She’d been made.

The realization struck at the same time as the Stunner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hermione was mired in drowsy half-consciousness. It was not the calm, gentle waking from sleep, where awareness crept in like a lover, caring and quiet. It was instead a hangover’s stupor, with full-body pain and a nauseating curl in her brain and gut. The space behind her eyelids was too bright to bear, the darkness too crushing to stand. And here she was, trapped in limbo. The worst of both worlds.

Her foot twitched. An instinctive response, like a horse flicking its tail to dislodge a bothersome fly. The tingle moved up her leg, more a meander than a focused exploration. Then, a jump that helped to wake her: hands against her side, encircling her waist. Fingers rubbing slow circles against her skin. 

Hermione moaned. She tried to move away but only managed to roll her neck. Her face angled toward the light, and she grimaced at the sting of it.

The hands continued their journey north, skimming the bones of her torso. Tracing the bottom edge of her breasts. 

No. 

Adrenaline shot through her system, and she pried her eyes open. Her assailant was a thin man dressed in dark denims and an old sweater. He had a sharp chin, and his jawline was dusted with the shadow of stubble. He had pulled his platinum blond hair back into a small, sloppy bun. 

_No_.

Draco Malfoy looked at her from over his shoulder, his gray eyes narrowed and assessing. He held her sealskin in his hands. 

“What were you doing at the well?” 

His voice barely rose above a whisper, but it felt like a shout to her pounding head. The Stunner still had her in its grip. She frowned and turned her head away. She needed space to think. To strategize. 

He dropped her skin, and the absence of his fingers flooded her with short-lived relief. His boots thudded across the wood floor, and she flinched away from the edge of one as he straddled her. He trapped her supine form between his legs, looking down at her from stranding. 

“The well,” he repeated. 

She shook her head, or tried to. The motion was jerky, her neck still stiff from the curse. 

He squatted down, slowly, so that she could feel the horror of his approach. Witness the full force of the menace behind his eyes, which were as dead and dull as the scales of a beached fish. His hand drifted to her neck, the web between his thumb and forefinger settling just below her chin. He applied pressure. Enough to show he meant it. 

“I will not ask again.” 

She tried to lift her leg. To knee him, grab her skin, and make a run for it. Her heel only scraped across the floor. He noted it with a raised brow. 

“You think I haven’t done this before?” The pressure on her larynx increased. “You think I don’t know how long the effects of a Stunner last? Or how to get information out of someone who doesn’t want to give it?” He leaned down, their noses almost brushing. “You think I give a shite about you, Granger?” 

“No,” she choked and jerked her head forward. 

But he was too quick, or she was too slow. He flinched clear, his hand leaving her neck just long enough for her to swallow a painful breath. Then, a new world of pain. A backhand to her cheek that left her seeing stars. She gasped, tasting blood, and blinked away her doubled vision. He gripped her chin, sending a jolt through her tender jaw as he faced her forward. 

“That will not help you,” he growled. “The _well_.” 

“Praying,” she said, forcing the answer past his hand. It wasn’t technically a lie. 

“Bullshite.” He’d seen the truth behind her eyes. Or maybe he knew her well enough to know that she had no need for gods, modern or mythological. 

“Old magic…” she tried again. 

He cut her off. “Perhaps you’re misunderstanding your circumstances. You’re a prisoner, Granger. _My_ prisoner. If you tell me what I want to know, I will kill you quickly. If not…” His dull eyes brightened, and he stroked a long finger across her cheek, a clear and convincing threat. “If not, I will break you first, and then you’ll beg for it.” 

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from fear; she’d been in worse scrapes. But she knew Draco of old. Intelligent, just behind her in every class except for Potions. A keen strategist, who had gotten the Death Eaters into Hogwarts under the nose of the Headmaster, the professors, and Harry’s suspicious eyes. A decent duelist, the stories of his battlefield performance discussed at length in those early days, when any hesitation could be exploited as weakness. But at his core, Draco was a coward. A man who lacked the courage to follow through with his threats. 

She could use that to her advantage. Use his weakness to save herself. 

A tear slipped free and dripped into her hair. She tested the motion and strength in her legs via a brief, panicked squirm. She needed to delay for as long as it took her legs to regain the strength to run. 

“Please…” 

Draco’s lip curled in disgust as she begged, her voice now not only choked, but thick with grief. 

“Please,” she said, another tear slipping loose. “I went to wish… Just to wish…” 

Draco paused as something caught his attention. A sound she couldn’t hear. His eyes shifted toward the door. 

“ _Shite_.” 

“Malfoy, please…” 

“Quiet.” 

“You don’t have to—”

“I said _quiet_!” 

Another slap, though not as hard as the first, intended to focus a babbling woman, not disorient a non-compliant prisoner. She obeyed, tensing as he looked back down at her. 

“Do you want to survive today?” 

She nodded. 

“Then get up.” 

His hand dropped from around her throat, and he stepped back, wand trained on her chest as she struggled to her feet. She moved slower than necessary, giving herself time to take an inventory. 

Draco had brought her to a small, detached house. She’d woken in the front sitting room. Moth-eaten curtains had been pulled over the windows, throwing incomplete shade over a threadbare couch, a single armchair, and a fireplace. Several manual locks barred the front door. Hermione assumed that they were charmed, as well, though she couldn’t be sure until she tested them. 

With a snap of his fingers, Draco summoned ropes around her wrists, binding her hands together behind her back. He took her arm and marched her through the house. 

Past a Spartan dining set, a small kitchen, and into a dark hallway. 

Past the first room on the left, the door cracked open far enough to allow a glimpse of dirty clothes and empty ale cans scattered across the floor. 

Past a pair of opposing doors: a linen closet on the left and, judging from the fusty smell, a cellar on the right. At the end of the hall, also on the right, was a water closet. 

Draco paused at the last door on the left and held his hand against the knob. It lit orange, as if the metal had been thrust into a blacksmith’s forge. After a moment, it cooled back to brass. He shoved her through first and closed it behind them. 

The smell of him was stronger here, spice like whisky and the musk of unwashed sheets. He kept his room tidy. No clothes or detritus on the floor. His bed was unmade, but his corner desk was organized, with no incriminating pieces of parchment for her to filch. He slid open his closet door, where black robes hung next to chunky sweaters and a few Oxfords. His trousers had been pressed and carefully hung. His vanity, at least, had survived the war. Before she could make a smart comment about it, he shoved her forward. With another snap of his fingers, a blindfold wrapped around her eyes. 

“Not a word,” he hissed. “Not a single sound, or else you’re through. Nod if you understand.” 

She nodded. Draco sounded scared. Or perhaps concerned was more accurate. Whatever was about to happen worried him, and she had no idea why. He’d shown no concern for her survival earlier. In fact, he’d promised to make her beg for death. What had changed? 

And what did it mean for her chances of escape? 

The ambient light beyond her blindfold disappeared as he slid the closet door closed. He opened his bedroom door, stepped into the hallway, and closed her in. She shuffled to the corner and lowered herself to a seat, keeping her back against the wall and using her feet to move his shoes and clear a space for herself. She pressed an ear to the wall, which was thin enough to hear through, and followed the sound of his footsteps. Draco moved around in the kitchen, closing cabinets. She heard a faint rattle, which she suspected was the front door’s many locks disengaging. 

Hermione hardly dared to breathe as a piece of understanding clicked into place. Draco was hiding her from his house-mate, who he either didn’t like, didn’t trust, or both. 

“Rowle.” 

Another piece slotted into place. Thorfinn Rowle was a brute of a man, a nasty combination of cruel and careless. More than one Death Eater owed his untimely death to friendly fire originating from Rowle’s wand. And she’d heard other rumors, too. How he targeted female combatants. The sadistic spells he’d craft against them. His interest in taking them alive whenever possible. It wasn’t hard to guess what prompted such an interest. 

Maybe Draco had retained a shred of his humanity after all. 

Rowle banged through the kitchen cabinets, muttering as he did. “Smells in here. Like fish.” 

Hermione went cold. She didn’t notice the smell of the sea anymore, which hung around her sealskin like a miasma. She’d never considered how it could give her away. Where had Draco hidden it? Was it safe? 

“We’re 400 yards from the coast. What do you expect?” 

A beat of silence passed, then Rowle growled an unintelligible reply. 

“Any news?” Draco asked. 

“None that you need know.” The pop-hiss of an ale can cracking open. “Keep quiet. I was traveling all night. Need my rest.” 

“Is that an order?” 

A tense silence. “Give me a reason, boy.” Rowle’s voice was deep and threatening. “The Dark Lord would thank me for it.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have his primary source of funding become entirely uncooperative,” Draco drawled. “Quite the tactician you are, Rowle. Perhaps you should put in for a promotion, get yourself out of the Inverness shitehole.” 

“We’re _both_ in this shitehole,” Rowle said pointedly. “Now shut it.” 

Heavy footsteps traveled down the hall, then Rowle’s door slammed shut. Silence descended over the tiny house. There was the crunch of an ale can being crushed, the thud of tossed boots, and the muffled _whump_ of discarded clothes. After about twenty minutes, Rowle began to snore, a rumble like truck tires over uneven pavement. 

The noise masked the sound of Draco’s footsteps as he ventured from the kitchen. Hermione was surprised when the bedroom door eased open, then clicked closed again. The ambient light returned as Draco opened the closet door. Hermione winced as he magicked the blindfold away. 

“There’s some brains in you after all,” he whispered. He sat down across from her, her pack on his lap. He pulled the drawstrings apart, and Hermione’s shoulders tingled as he withdrew her sealskin. 

Hermione’s eyes drifted closed at the sensation. It had been months since she’d been touched by someone. A life spent delivering the Order’s messages wasn’t conducive to physical intimacy, and she’d almost forgotten the pure, human pleasure of it. 

A pleasure that disappeared at his disgusted expression. 

“Rowle was right. This thing stinks.” 

Nevertheless, he brought it closer, rubbing the thick fabric between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Never seen anything like this, though…” He looked up at her. “What is it?” 

“Insulated cloak.” She kept her answer casual, disinterested. If Draco knew what he held, the importance of it not only to the Order, but to her life, she’d be in even greater danger. 

Draco looked skeptical but didn’t press. He set the skin aside, and Hermione relaxed a little, past the most immediate danger. 

For the next several hours, Draco took a complete inventory of Hermione’s pack, withdrawing one item at a time. She had sacrificed her personal library to include only the most critical subjects: a field Healing manual and a four-inch thick encyclopedia of charms, curses, hexes, and jinxes. There were several maps of the British Isles, both topographical and of the surrounding ocean’s currents. A small money pouch contained three Sickles and a handful of Knuts. He scoffed upon emptying the pockets of her mac, at the handful of Muggle bills and coins contained therein. She carried nothing incriminating. Nothing that would give away the Order or any of its confidential information.

“Been a spy for long?” She bit her tongue, but Draco didn’t seem to require an answer. “You’re careful,” he said, almost impressed. “You’re only useful so long as you’re alive. It’s strategic. Smart. Though perhaps I should have figured as much.” 

If he hadn’t been sneering, she might have taken it as a compliment. 

“Now what?” she asked. The question felt inevitable, but he looked surprised. She tilted her head toward Rowle’s room. “You can’t hide me forever.” 

“Just until he leaves for the night,” Draco said. Bright afternoon light filtered through the gap between his curtains. Night was still several hours away.

“And then to the Dark Lord?” She had long since grown accustomed to the Taboo on Lord Voldemort’s proper name. 

His eyes narrowed. “What does it matter to you?” 

She forced a shrug, the muscles in her shoulders pinching. “It’s notable that you don’t trust your colleague. Maybe there are others you don’t trust. Maybe—”

He lunged forward, his hand connecting with her throat. She gasped as her head bounced off the closet door, eyes watering reflexively. 

“Be silent, or I will silence you.” 

Rowle gave a snort, sending them both into stillness. The old bed springs creaked as he readjusted, and then his rhythmic snoring returned. Draco pulled his hand away. 

“Not a _sound_.” 

He repacked everything except for the book of spells. She cringed as he handled her sealskin, shoving it carelessly atop all the other items. 

“Malfoy?” He bared his teeth at her, practically hissing with displeasure. She asked regardless. “Where’s my wand?”

He tossed her pack onto his bed and joined it there, kicking off his shoes before settling himself against a thin pillow propped against the wall. 

“ _Malfoy_.”

A casual flick of his wand made good on his promise: he Silenced her. 

They traded a glare across the small bedroom, and then Draco turned back to her book, flipping to her dog-eared pages and squinting as he tried to decipher the tiny notes and ideas she’d written in the margins. She settled herself against the closet door and closed her eyes, breathing through the pain in her jaw and head and the growing ache across her back and shoulders. 

She had been in worse situations, but not by much. And in those situations, at least one other person had known her location. No one in the Order knew where she was. Only that she was headed to Inverness and was due in Edinburgh in two days. No one would raise an alarm until day four of her absence. Day five would bring panic. By then, it would probably be too late. Draco could have her well across the country, handed over to Voldemort in his fortress on the Isle of Man. 

In six days, she’d be either a prisoner or a corpse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The afternoon trudged forward, the light rays growing longer as they slanted through the gap in Draco’s bedroom curtains. The silence had persisted as well: Draco’s chosen, Hermione’s cursed.

Her shoulder muscles had locked after the first hour or two, her hands going numb from the restraints. She wasn’t a Healer and didn’t know much about the subject beyond field triage. She tried in vain to remember how long blood needed to be restricted from an area before permanent damage was done. Surely longer than an afternoon, or so she hoped. 

Draco came and went as he pleased. When he was in the room with her, he spent his time reading. He left six times: four to refill his water glass from the kitchen faucet, twice to use the loo. Hermione fidgeted, feeling pressure build in her pelvis. Dehydration went hand-in-glove with her line of work, and Draco hadn’t exactly been an accommodating host. However, there were anatomical limits to her bladder’s endurance. 

Limits that, as light turned to shadow and the sun dipped below the tree line, they now needed to address. 

Hermione tried to speak, but Draco’s curse was well cast. She leaned forward to capture his attention and mouthed her request. His eyebrows pulled together, confused. She tried again, slower, but had apparently already exhausted the short runway of his patience. He ended the _Silencio_ with a flick. 

“The loo,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. 

He considered a moment before answering. “No.” 

“Make me wait much longer, and it’s not going to be a choice.” Draco’s lip curled in disgust. Unearned: it wasn’t her fault that he hadn’t thought this through. She sneered right back. “Perhaps you should’ve considered this before taking me prisoner.” 

“Awfully mouthy for needing something from me.” 

“Awfully stubborn for a man who doesn’t want his room to smell like urine.” 

Draco clenched his jaw. “Fine. Up.” 

She pressed herself against the wall, levering herself to standing while Draco moved past her to open the door. 

“Malfoy.” He looked over at her, a question in his eyes. “I need my arms free.” 

Understanding dawned, followed by a parade of regret, embarrassment, and discomfort. Nevertheless, he freed Hermione’s wrists with a flick of his wand. 

She’d experienced pain before. Cuts and bruises. A variety of hexes. The Cruciatus Curse, expertly cast by Lord Voldemort’s most feared headswoman, Bellatrix Lestrange. This was just as bad. Knives of fire lanced through her shoulders and upper back as she brought her arms forward. Each motion sent sharp spikes of pain into her neck and down her sides. 

Soon after, the tingling started. Slow at first, almost pleasant, tickling from shoulder to elbow. Then faster, harder. Hundreds of needles stabbing into her skin as her nerves came back to life. She sagged against the wall, her eyes shut against the tears, bottom lip pressed between her teeth so that she wouldn’t cry out. She forced movement into her fingers. They were stiff and clumsy, but thankfully still functional. 

She swiped her eyes with the sleeves of her jumper and chanced a look at Draco. His expression was shuttered, despite her red-rimmed eyes. He had either become entirely apathetic or had mastered the art of suppressing empathy. It was impossible to tell. 

His eyebrows rose in a silent question, and she nodded. 

“I’m okay,” she said. 

Not that he cared. 

Draco opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He faced Rowle’s room, wand half-raised though his colleague’s snores were still audible.

“Don’t be long,” he hissed as she darted past him and into the water closet. 

Hermione locked the door behind her, satisfied to hear the click, even though security was an illusion. He could unlock it with a flick of his wand if she tarried, but she didn’t care. After being rendered unconscious, beaten, and bound, she planned to take her time. 

She satisfied biology and stood at the sink, the tap on high. She cupped water to her mouth greedily, drinking until she wasn’t thirsty and then drinking more to guarantee another opportunity to visit the loo. Her cheek had bruised from Draco’s fist, the corner of her mouth swollen and torn from the impact. She rinsed her face with cold water, letting her skin air dry instead of using the dingy towel that hung limp and threadbare from the towel bar. She stripped down to her camisole and washed beneath her arms. She considered going further; Draco might allow her to use the facilities, but there was no guarantee of a shower. Before she could do more than unbutton her denims, a sound shifted over the faucet’s rush. 

Rowle’s snores had ceased. Hermione closed the tap and reached for the door just as Draco opened it. His gray eyes were wide with panic. 

“ _Go_ ,” he ordered, low and urgent. “Now.” 

But it was too late. 

Rowle’s door opened. The Death Eater stood bare-chested in the hallway, his yellowed briefs sagging low beneath his pot belly, which was covered in wiry blond hair. He held his wand casually in one hand and scratched his rear with the other. 

Hermione froze. Their eyes met. 

It took a moment to register. Then Rowle’s mouth twisted into a snarl. 

“Well, shite,” Draco said with an aggrieved sigh. 

Rowle raised his wand, the syllables of the Killing Curse on his tongue. But Draco was faster. He cast casually, vocalized the spell as if it meant nothing. As if it cost him nothing. 

“ _Avada Kedavra_.” 

Bright green light filled the small hallway. Hermione felt a moment of breathlessness, gasping as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the house. She pressed her back against the wall and watched as Rowle stilled, wand extended, suspended for a brief moment before falling backwards. Her stomach turned as the stiff bones of his neck broke upon his collision with the floor. His face was still contorted in the awkward grimace of a half-spoken spell. Nothing in his expression indicated surprise. He hadn’t realized what Draco had been about to cast. He’d underestimated his house mate. 

As had she. 

Draco met her eyes over the space of the hallway, and Hermione felt her blood turn to ice. She thought she’d known this boy. She’d taken his measure at Hogwarts and had assumed that those proportions hadn’t changed. But the schoolyard bully of her past had been replaced by a cold, dead-eyed stranger. She hadn’t realized how much danger she’d been in, beneath his hands and at his mercy for an entire afternoon. She had gambled with her life on outdated information, had acted flippant and careless on a deeply incorrect assumption. 

She couldn’t make that mistake again. Not if she wanted to live through whatever came next. 

Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor, playing for time as she readjusted her expectations. Hopefully showing him deference would keep him from turning his wand on her next. 

“We don’t have much time now,” Draco said. “Rowle was largely useless, but they’ll be expecting him to check in at the start of his patrol.” 

“When is that?” Hermione tried to keep her voice steady. 

If Draco heard the tremble, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he checked his watch. 

“It’s seven p.m. now,” he said. “Rowle’s rounds start at nine, which means we have at least until ten before they come knocking. We need to be long gone by then.” 

This caught her attention. She shot him a confused look. “Gone?” 

“The Dark Lord has strict rules about murdering each other,” he said with brittle humor. “I don’t fancy losing an eye, or a testicle, or whatever other body part my dear old aunt decides I can live without. Especially not over him.” Draco tilted his chin derisively toward Rowle’s corpse. Hermione could barely look at it without her gorge rising. 

Her throat worked in a suppressive swallow. “You could let me go.” Draco raised an eyebrow. She sensed the folly of the proposition, but she had to try. “We never saw each other. I don’t know what happened to Rowle. I don’t know the location of this safe house. You haven’t given away anything, and I—” 

“And you are once again failing to appreciate your circumstances,” Draco interrupted. “In my _organization_ —” He drawled the word, deeply sarcastic. “—Advancement is individually earned and merit-based. Prove your worth, your _use_ , and reap the reward. You, Granger… You would have earned me quite the reward. Capturing you without Rowle’s assistance, smuggling you into and out of our safe house without his knowledge…” He trailed off, eyes shining with the potential of it. “I could’ve named my price. A promotion. A reassignment. My freedom.” 

The shine in his eyes faded. “But Rowle’s dead,” he continued. “And I killed him. Your capture, formerly my reason for advancement, is now the only thing that might save us from punishment, provided you’re used correctly. You’ve turned from a pawn into a bargaining chip. One I intend to use to my full advantage. ” 

He forced a smile, a lupine grin that made the hair on the back of Hermione’s neck stand on end. But he’d slipped. _Us_ , he’d said. This Draco might have been different from the one she’d known at Hogwarts, but she doubted he’d allowed more people into his inner circle. Historically, there were only two people that Draco cared about more than himself: 

His parents. 

This squared with the Order’s scant intelligence. The Malfoy family had been leveraged against itself for years. Lord Voldemort’s gains were stacked high against the family’s many losses, financial, reputational, and otherwise. 

This was information she could use. 

“Your organization doesn’t need to know.” Escape looked less likely by the moment, but she had nothing to lose by attempting to bargain. “We could transfigure his body. Hide the corpse.” 

Draco shook his head. “A Priori Incantatem would implicate me. The spell is cast, and we’ve wasted…” He consulted his watch again. “Three minutes.” He looked up at her. “I can bind you, or you can help us both. Your choice.” 

Hermione took a deep breath. She did not need to consider. If escape wasn’t possible now, maybe it would be later. Whenever her chance came, she needed her hands free for it. The logic steadied her. Draco didn’t want to be caught by the Death Eaters any more than she did. Their immediate circumstances made them allies. She could work with that. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

Draco disappeared into his bedroom and, after a moment of rummaging, returned clutching a tactical nylon backpack. It had three pockets of descending size, several sturdy loops, a side pouch of netted nylon, and was dappled with the black and gray of nighttime shadows. He undid the zips and charmed it with a series of silent spells. She recognized the motions: an Undetectable Extension charm to increase its capacity, a Featherlight charm so that they could stuff it full without feeling its weight. She had cast the same two on her drawstring pack. Then he cast a third charm, one she’d never seen. She hesitated when he held it out for her. 

“It doesn’t bite,” he grumbled, giving the bag a shake. She frowned and took it by the straps, handling it gingerly. She didn’t trust spells she didn’t recognize.

“Food and water,” Draco said. “Clear the cabinets of whatever you can find. We’ll be traveling on foot.” 

Her brow furrowed. “Not Apparating?” 

“No.” He disappeared back into his room. She stared after him, watching as he dumped the contents of her pack onto the floor. The skin of her left thigh and right shoulder tingled where he touched her sealskin, moving it to the side as he began to repack her bag with the same care she typically applied. 

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “Unless you’d prefer to stay? I can’t say I like our odds, but I can guarantee your outcome would be measurably worse than mine.”

She scowled and bit back a retort. But he was right: every minute of delay was a minute they could have spent putting distance between them and the enemy. 

Hermione edged past Rowle’s corpse, keeping her back pressed against the wall and her eyes trained on the body. Irrational fear picked at her, old, unsubstantiated rumors of Lord Voldemort’s Inferi army nudging her into a mild panic. The water she’d drank sat uneasy in her stomach. She swallowed it down and tried to focus on the next steps. 

The kitchen’s cupboards were mostly bare. She took inventory on the kitchen table: one bag of rice, mostly full; three tins of beans, five of pre-cooked sausage, two of sweet corn; a half loaf of stale bread; a wedge of cheese she’d found covered on the counter, tolerably moldy once she scraped off the bits covered in blue fuzz. The icebox held no fresh food—no vegetables or eggs. Just a carton of old milk and some rainbow-sheened meat that she didn’t bother taking. The freezer contained a mostly full bottle of gin, and she found an unopened bottle of whisky in the topmost cupboard. A small cooking pot, a chipped wooden spoon, a container of salt, and two sets of utensils rounded out their collection of kitchen goods that were destined for the backpack. 

One of her foraged items would stay with her: a utility knife, the only one she’d found in their bare-bones kitchen. Four inches long, bent at the tip, and dull against the skin of her thumb, the nicked steel was better than nothing. With a wary look over her shoulder, Hermione slipped it into her waistband, making sure it was secure against her hip before lowering her shirt over it. 

She finished packing her bag just as Draco stepped over Rowle’s body. Another shiver worked its way down Hermione’s neck; he hadn’t given it a second look. 

“Ready?” He readjusted her pack across his shoulders. It was too small for him. The nylon drawstrings bunched near the collar of his coat, and the pack sat high up on his back. 

“Do you want to switch?” she asked, offering him the backpack and trying for innocence. 

He gave her a deadpan look, unconvinced. “Let’s go.” 

“Wait. Just… I need to know. My wand and my cloak. You have them?” 

He paused to look at her, assessing her for weakness. For a tell. She schooled her features into the run-of-the-mill worry any witch would feel without her wand. His eyes relaxed; Hermione was pretty sure she had passed. 

“I have them,” he answered. “Not like you’ll ever see them again.” He brushed past her, and Hermione felt the warm steel against the outside of her thigh. 

Hermione didn’t want to kill him. 

She didn’t want to kill anyone. Yes, she’d done terrible things in support of this war. She’d lied and stolen. She’d hurt people, some who might have deserved it and some who might not have. Those deeds weighed heavy on her conscience. Haunted her, when the sea rushed cold beneath her and the sky stretched wide above, when her only companions were unanswerable questions on philosophy and morality. 

However, if hurting him meant getting her wand and sealskin back, then she would. 

She had to. 

Her first inhale of outside air cleared the thick smell of death from her nose. Instead, she smelled the sea. True to Draco’s word, Moray Firth was in sight, spreading like dark glass beyond a prickly field of cut wheat. She felt a pang of homesickness; the sea was the closest thing she had to belonging. The idea of traveling over land after spending most of her time in the ocean felt foreign and unwelcome. To be traveling with a partner even more so. 

Draco turned west at the end of the short drive, walking them down a paved road. His hair shone in the setting sun, as lustrous as gold. As if he’d heard her thought, he lifted his hood, extinguishing the glow. 

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” he said, speaking quietly. “Our destination is over 500 miles away. We’re walking the whole way.” 

“Can’t you Apparate?”

He sent her a sideways scowl. “You already asked that.” 

“And you didn’t answer.” 

“What makes you think I will this time?” 

“500 miles,” she repeated. “Average walking pace is three miles per hour. That makes a travel time of approximately… 166 hours. With eight hours of rest per day—”

“Six,” Draco corrected. 

Hermione suppressed her skepticism. She would have bet what little remained of her Muggle money that she’d traveled farther than Draco in the past seven years. She knew a body’s limits, how much a human could endure without significant rest. If Draco thought they could walk 18 hours while sleeping six, then fine. She’d let him discover those limits for himself and steal away with her pack while he was sunk into a deep sleep, near delirious from exhaustion. 

“Fine.” She did some quick mental math. “We’ll be walking for about ten days. You expect to pass them in silence?” 

Another sideways look. “Is it too much to hope?” 

She blinked, his bitter humor once again surprising her.

“At least tell me where we’re headed.” 

“No.” 

“500 miles over land. We’re heading west now, but I’m sure we’ll turn south eventually. Is it Wilt—”

He rounded on her, arm raised for a backhanded slap. She flinched, stumbling back over her own feet. 

“Be _quiet_.” His eyes flashed in the low light. “You’re a spy,” he continued on a growl. “The less you know, the less of a liability you are.” 

“Why would it matter?” 

“Did I not make myself clear? We are going to be _hunted_ , Granger. Both of us. And our only chance of safety is a week and a half to the south. We can get through it together, or you can fight me at every step. Which do you prefer?” 

Hermione’s lips flattened into a line as Draco’s expression shifted, becoming unbearably smug. 

“Say it.” 

Draco stepped closer. She could smell the sea and his body, a combination of salt and spice that made her want to run. To dive into the ocean and never stop swimming, even as he angled them inland. They both knew the correct answer—the only answer that gave her a fraction of a chance and spared him from whatever torture his aunt could invent.

“Together,” she managed from between clenched teeth. 

He considered her for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity of her words. Finally, he nodded. “Good, now shut up and follow me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

They followed the A9 south, walking through the night and into the next morning.

Hermione hardly noticed the physical strain of it. As a wartime courier, she’d experienced the full spectrum of bodily pain: blistered toes, chafed heels, chapped lips, and sunburned skin. The emotional strain was likewise familiar. Most of Hermione’s missions were undertaken alone. She ferried messages across the Isles and had no home base. No bed save for what she could borrow or bastardize from her surroundings. She ate meals cold or smoked over a campfire and slept without shelter beneath the sky. 

Draco, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable, misplaced among Scotland’s hills and heaths. He had developed a limp, which worsened as they walked. On their rare water breaks, his hands would shake from exhaustion. Water dripped from the corners of his mouth as he drank from their shared canteen, and he nearly dropped the tin of beans when she passed it over. 

But he pressed on, only stopping after the full 18 hours had elapsed, timed precisely by his wristwatch. They made camp off the road in the wilds of Cairngorms National Park. Afternoon light filtered through the thinning canopy, and Draco dropped her pack at the foot of a large tree. A dip in its roots created a crescent big enough to curl into. It might have been a comfortable place to stop, but it was far from secure. 

“We should keep looking,” Hermione suggested, glancing back over her shoulder. She’d been checking behind them all morning, unable to shake the feeling of being followed. And even though she’d yet to see anything, her paranoia hadn’t abated. If anything, it was growing worse. 

Draco didn’t share her concern. “We stop here,” he said, eyelids drooping. His words ran together as he spoke. “We’ll take it in shifts. Three and three. You first.” 

If he were more alert, if Hermione thought he had enough energy to cast even a simple hex, she would’ve suppressed her laugh. “There’s no way you’re going to stay up for three hours.” 

She wouldn’t either, honestly. But then, she didn’t need to. Hermione only needed to stay awake longer than Draco did. Long enough to steal back her bag, her wand, her sealskin, and Apparate away from him. 

“Fair point. Come here.” He held an arm out to her. 

She glared. “I’m not sleeping with you.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said with a scowl. “And don’t bother thinking of escape.” 

“I wasn’t—”

“For a spy, you’re a shite liar.” He tossed her drawstring pack over. “Here. Try it.” 

She narrowed her eyes, ready for the trap. He just waited, gaze steady, patient for the proof of her nerve. Hermione set her chin and pulled the bag apart. She reached inside and found nothing, stomach dropping as her fingertips brushed the pack’s empty bottom. 

She looked back up at him, eyes wide. “You lied to me,” she said, dread curling in her stomach. Her livelihood, her identity, and her only source of power in this world… Gone. She should’ve known not to trust him. Should’ve fought harder to escape. Heat pricked the back of her eyes. “You said you brought it. My seal—My cloak. My _wand_.” 

“All there,” Draco assured her. “It’s Handfast. Only I can access the pack. Leave me or kill me, and you’ll never see your wand or that ratty cloak again.” 

Hermione paled and tossed the bag back over to him, careless and angry. That must have been the spell she hadn’t recognized. “You’re an arsehole.” 

The tug of a grin. “And you’re arrogant. You’re not the only clever person on the planet, you know. Not the only one with foresight.” He set the pack beside him and reached out for her again. She didn’t move. 

“You’re right,” he said. “There’s no way I’ll stay awake for another three hours to keep watch. Since I’ve now removed your incentive to run or maim me, we might as well both get six hours. Don’t act like you don’t need it.” 

She did need it. Dearly. Nevertheless, she crossed her arms. 

“Stubborn witch,” he muttered. “I’m not going to touch you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

It was, partially. Hermione was still adjusting to this new version of the boy she’d known. The cruel streak, the bitter humor, the cold practicality that seemed to override his long-lived prejudice. Worst of all, however, was the unpredictability. Draco said he wouldn’t touch her, but would that promise hold when they were huddled together? 

She hadn’t been intimate with anyone in over a year. Too much time traveling meant precious little to spend in bed with a lover. The idea of being with him sent her stomach plummeting. Even if he felt the same way, disgust was a feeble safeguard, easily overcome by a need as primitive as sex. 

Even if he didn’t touch her, there was another way he could hurt her. 

He could leave her. 

As her captor, Draco held all the power. At any point, he could rethink his situation. Decide she wasn’t worth the effort, Apparate them to the Isle of Man, and endure his punishment. Or he could run away entirely, find his parents and a way out of the country, leaving her alone in the woods. Wandless, skinless, with no food and limited resources in a rapidly chilling September. She might survive it, but if the Death Eaters were already on their trail, it was unlikely. 

She needed to rebalance the dynamic. Give him a reason to stay with her, or, minimally, a reason to regret leaving. 

“I need collateral,” she said. 

“Collateral,” he repeated, voice flat. 

“Your wand.” 

“No.” 

“Your shoes.” 

He scoffed. 

“Your ring.” 

His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked down at his hand, as if he’d forgotten the presence of the Malfoy signet on the fourth finger of his right hand. His gaze was blank, carefully so. After a moment of consideration, he twisted it off his finger and tossed it to her. 

“Don’t know why you think that matters to me,” he said, attempting disinterest.

But his eyes betrayed him. His expression hardened as she slid the ring over the knuckle of her middle finger. She wondered if he’d ever gone without it before, if he felt naked without whatever protections the ring and his ancestry provided. The band tightened against her skin, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable weight. 

“Satisfied?” The question was clipped. 

“No.” But she got to her knees and moved toward him anyway. 

Draco tucked himself into the crescent of tree roots and looked up at her expectantly. Trying not to think about it, Hermione settled herself in front of him, leaving a good three inches between his front and her rear. He draped an arm across her torso and wrapped the straps of their supply bags around his wrist a few times. She shifted her hips, making sure he wouldn’t accidentally brush the knife that was still tucked into her waistband. 

Draco pillowed his head with his arm and spoke low. “I’m a light sleeper. Try anything, and you’ll regret it.” 

“Likewise,” she said, with more venom than she could follow up on. 

He breathed a laugh. “My watch is set for six hours. See you then.” 

She bit her tongue against the instinct to wish him goodnight in return.

* * *

After a brief breakfast—or supper, more accurately—of cold sausage and stale bread, they were on their feet again, continuing south along the A9. A few hours into their second, 18-hour leg, it started to rain. 

The precipitation alternated between a drizzle and a downpour. At first, Hermione tried to make the best of it. She opened her mouth to the sky for a drink, refilled their canteens, and removed her hair from its top knot. She worked her fingers through the stretched curls, massaging her scalp and wishing she’d thought to pack shampoo. 

As the temperature dropped with the sun, the rain’s novelty wore thin. Her shoes and socks were soaked through, squelching with each step. And though she wore her mac, she had tucked her wet hair beneath her hood. Cold streaks had soaked into her shoulders and down the back of her jumper, giving her a chill.

Draco looked equally miserable. His platinum hair lay plastered to his forehead, dripping water into his eyes, and his limp had grown worse. Hermione could only guess at its source. Ill-fitting shoes? An old injury? Either way, they were doing more harm than good walking in this weather. She caught up to him with a few quick steps. 

“We need to stop.”

Draco didn’t even look at her. “No.” 

“At least to dry off and cast an Impervius.” 

“No.” 

“Malfoy!” 

“We keep going,” he said. 

Hermione stopped. “Why?” 

He didn’t bother with a reply. Just kept his steady pace, dragon-hide boots repelling the water far more effectively than her old trainers, seemingly ambivalent toward her presence or absence. Hermione debated sticking her heels into the proverbial—or in this case, literal—mud. He was being unreasonable, and she had no idea why. Any rational magic user would have paused ages ago, taken care of the problem with a couple of quick, second year spells, and traveled the rest of the way in relative comfort. 

Draco clearly was not rational. 

And he wouldn’t tell her why. 

Hermione resented him well into the morning. When they were just north of Perth, the rain dried up, leaving overcast skies and a variable wind. They crossed a sodden field, recently shorn of its wheat harvest, and Draco kicked open the door to a disused shed. It smelled like mouse droppings and old oil, but at least it was dry. 

They moved without speaking, exhausted and instinctively aligned on what it would take to not be. Draco blocked the door with an old tool chest while Hermione spread a few hole-ridden tarps along the concrete floor. She stripped off her mac, shoes, and socks, hanging them to dry across the tines of a rusty pitchfork. She longed to remove her denims; they were soaked to her knees, and the fabric, though softened by time and use, had started to stiffen. For a moment, Draco looked like he was debating the same dilemma. Ultimately, he decided against it, so Hermione followed suit. 

Draco lay down first. And though Hermione’s body shivered uncontrollably, she nevertheless set herself three inches away from him. Draco draped a hand over her ribcage and, with a squeeze, pulled her close. 

Panic spiked through her as their bodies met, separated by clothing that suddenly felt far too thin. 

“No,” Hermione said urgently, pushing away from him, thinking of the knife at her hip. “No, I don’t want—”

“Oh, shut it,” he mumbled. “You’re cold, I’m cold, we’ll be warmer together.” 

Within minutes, his breathing evened. Deepened. He’d fallen asleep. The adrenaline was slow to fade from her system, but she did her best to match the cadence of his breath. Eventually, she stopped shivering and fell asleep.

* * *

Hermione pulled the hood of her coat tight. Wind had followed yesterday’s rain. They’d been fighting the gusts all the way to Edinburgh and making poor time. It didn’t help that they had both slept through Draco’s watch alarm. They had intended to wake around half past seven in the evening, just as they had all the nights before. Instead, they’d slept until midnight, curled embarrassingly close together, warm, dry, and what passed for comfortable on the floor of an old, stinking shed. 

The extra rest had done little to improve Draco’s already crotchety mood. He set a grueling pace, and Hermione knew better than to complain. His eyes contained the threat of thunderclouds, ready to unleash their fury at a moment’s notice. Instead, she kept quiet and close. Handed him food and water when requested and played lookout when he tended to his necessities. 

Near noon, she spotted Edinburgh from across the Firth of Forth. Her eyes flicked to Draco. 

George Weasley and Lee Jordan manned an Order safe house in Newhaven. They’d been expecting her yesterday. By now, they must have figured that something had happened, maybe even mobilized a response. 

If she could convince Draco to go into the city—to steal food, perhaps, or scrounge other supplies—she might be able to trigger one of the Order’s many lookout posts. She wouldn’t even have to go into Newhaven itself, just close enough so that one of them spotted her. She knew their routes and the general timing of their rounds. 

It could work. 

She cleared her throat as they neared the end of the Forth Road bridge. 

“We should go into the city.” 

“No.” 

An unsurprising answer. She continued to push. “We’re low on supplies.” 

“We have enough.” 

“For a day or two. We’ll need more.” 

“We’ll resupply somewhere else,” he said. 

“No, we won’t.”

He stopped to glare at her. 

“Edinburgh is the last large city we’ll see until Liverpool,” she continued. “We’re going to be walking through the wilds, and we need to resupply. It’s easier to knick things from a big city. Break in while the Muggles are at work, raid their cabinets, and keep moving. Keep anonymous. We risk exposure in the smaller towns. And seeing as you refuse to do magic—”

He practically hissed at the reminder. “Is this the kind of nagging your bonehead friends had to endure?” 

“No,” she shot back. “They listen to me when I have a good idea.” 

The barb landed. Draco scowled, and they continued in sullen silence until the first eastward turnoff from the A9. 

“Fine,” he groused. 

Hermione’s heart leapt, but her joy was short-lived. 

“We’ll case Queensferry, but we need to make it quick. My people will have realized that something went wrong. They’ll be looking for me, and it’ll be better for all parties if they don’t find me.” 

Hermione had been about to agree when a golden rocket of light shot past them. They exchanged a single, terrified glance, and then the petrol station behind them exploded. 

A deafening boom sent her sprawling forward, her hands and chin scraping across the pavement. She felt the scorching heat of fire at her back and rolled onto her side with a groan. She looked over to Draco, who was struggling to his hands and knees. 

“Your people?” she gasped, lifting herself onto her elbow.

He nodded and dipped his shoulder to reach into Hermione’s drawstring pack. 

“Perhaps now’s the time for my wand?” she asked. 

“Nice try.” Draco withdrew his hawthorn wand and slung the pack back over his shoulder. He gained his feet, staggered over to her, and extended a hand to help her up. She took it, then yanked him down with a yell. 

“Bitch!” he screamed. It was barely audible over the hiss of the curse that had scissored the space he’d just vacated. He flinched as the petrol cost sign fell to the ground with a shatter of brittle plastic and the fizzle of electrical circuitry.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione muttered, pulling him to his feet. 

“Suppose we have our answer now, don’t we?” 

Amycus Carrow’s gravelly voice sent fear coursing through Hermione’s body. He advanced slowly, twirling his wand between his fingers. His sister, Alecto, thin and sharp-shouldered, approached from their flank. 

“Men,” Alecto agreed with an exaggerated eye roll. “Leave them alone for long enough, and even _dogs_ start to look appealing. Did you enjoy your Mudblood cunt, boy?” 

Amycus made a show of adjusting the front of his trousers. “Maybe I’ll take a turn myself.” 

“Alecto no longer meeting your needs?” Draco spat. “What a shame.” 

Amycus roared in fury and whipped a spell at them. Alecto cast quietly, a well-aimed shiv where her brother used a hammer. Draco deflected the first, but the second cut into his side. He staggered backwards; Hermione caught him by the arm. They traded a look. 

“On my signal,” he said.

“What?”

He flung a pair of spells at the siblings, then pivoted. “Run!” 

She sprinted after him, past the petrol station, which plumed black smoke into the gray sky. Muggles had gathered around the burning structure, screaming and snapping photos with their mobiles as the wail of emergency sirens grew louder. 

Draco shoved through the crowd, steering them toward a neighborhood. Hermione flinched as a hex whistled past her head, striking a tree. Horror curled through her as the healthy brown trunk withered to black and its bright yellow leaves turned to ash, drifting with the wind. 

The Carrows were not casting to capture; they were casting to kill. 

“The firth!” Hermione shouted. “We need to get to the water!” 

Draco acknowledged her with a nod and shot another spell over his shoulder as they turned, sprinting further into the residential area. 

“If it’s the city you’re heading for, don’t bother!” Amycus shouted. 

Hermione shielded her face and head as a branch fell from an overhead tree, the impact missing her by less than a foot. 

“We killed those poofters,” Alecto added with a cackle. “Rolled right over for us!” 

Rage burned in Hermione’s chest, both at the slurs and at what the siblings might mean by them. She wanted a wand, to turn and face them and make them pay. But Draco had kept her unarmed, and Amycus and Alecto hadn’t walked half the length of Scotland over the past few days. The siblings were gaining ground. Fighting wasn’t a viable option. 

Draco had realized it too. 

“Keep going!” He stopped for a second, took aim, and Hermione saw a car lift off its wheels and go flying. A shout, a crash, the screech of crumpled metal. 

Hermione shot out into the lead, and Draco followed, his cheeks spotted red from exertion. She turned north and saw the masts of sailboats in the harbor. 

If they could reach the water, they had a chance.

She put on a pathetic burst of speed as Draco continued to whip careless spells over his shoulder, wreaking a path of destruction behind them. Alecto shrieked in pain; something must have connected. That would create some space. Hopefully it was enough. 

Her feet pounded over the cracked, uneven pavement of the Queensferry pier.

“The bag!” she cried, turning to Draco as she reached the pier’s end. “I need my cloak, now!” 

“Not the time!” he yelled through heavy exhales. The Carrows had reached the pier and stalked toward them with teeth bared, like wolves that had cornered a pair of rabbits. 

“Draco!” 

Whether it was the use of his given name or the raw desperation in her voice, Hermione couldn’t be sure. But she had caught his attention. He looked at her, performing a split-second assessment before tapping the bag with his wand. He tossed it to her, then flung a hex forward. The concrete at the Carrows’ feet exploded, sending the pair to their knees.

Hermione yanked the bag apart, relieved to see the gray of her sealskin right on top. She withdrew it, closed the pack, and tossed it back to him. 

“We need to jump.” 

“Are you mad?” 

“No!” 

But it was too late. A curse struck his chest, sending him spinning. His wand arced through the air, and she reached out a hand. It slid into her palm as though it were meant for her. 

She cast on instinct. 

Two flashes of green light. Two thuds as the bodies of Amycus and Alecto struck the concrete. Hermione’s chest heaved, then it was her stomach’s turn. She doubled over and puked, retching through her desperate gasps for air. Noise pressed in around her: the Muggles’ panicked voices, Draco’s pained groans. And above it all, a roar, like wind howling through a mountain pass, cold, steady, and, if she let it, shredding. 

But there wasn’t time. 

If there were two Death Eaters, there would be more soon. They had to find somewhere safe. 

She hung the sealskin around her shoulders and knelt next to Draco. The wound on his side bled steadily, his breaths short and shallow. He looked up at her, bleary eyed. A strange, rueful smile played across his lips. 

“Was fun while it lasted,” he rasped. 

Hermione almost laughed. The last few days hadn’t been enjoyable in the least, but she understood his need for graveside humor. She had his wand. She had her bag. He was injured, maybe incapacitated, and if she left him, the Death Eaters would find him. Draco was as good as dead. 

She thought about it longer than she should have. 

Finally, she stowed his wand into her drawstring pack. 

“We need to get out of here,” she said, helping him to his feet and leading him to the pier’s edge. “I need you to carry both bags. Jump in after me and hold on tightly. Tap twice when you need to come up for air.” 

Draco’s eyes drooped closed, his hand stained red where it pressed weakly against his side. He shook his head, confused. “What?” 

Hermione turned away from him and stared out at the water. Slipping into her sealskin was always easier than shedding it. She’d grown up with an affinity for the water, a yearning that only the ocean’s infinite horizon could sate. She let herself feel it. Let it consume her. 

Her sealskin wrapped around her, a poor, uncomfortable fit over her clothes. She felt bulky and clumsy, but they did not have far to go. An island sat just below the central tier of Forth Bridge. Inchgarvie: fortified, unreachable, and, most importantly, uninhabited. 

She shuffled toward the pier’s edge and looked up at Draco with wide eyes. If it had been any other circumstance—if she hadn’t been traveling for three days, engaged in a firefight in Muggle Scotland, broken about fifty Ministry laws, and killed two people—his expression of absolute shock would have made her laugh. 

Instead, she levered herself off the pier. The gray water was soft and welcoming around her. She felt the splash of Draco’s entry and poked her head above the surf. She waited, bobbing easily as he looped his arms around her neck. 

Hermione gave him a second to catch his breath. 

Then, she dove.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hermione sped toward Inchgarvie’s black, igneous shoreline, beaching herself with a clatter of stone. Draco rolled off her and fell into the surf with a splash. He dragged himself out of the frigid water hand-over-hand, pale and already shivering. Hermione rolled onto her back and shed her ill-fitting skin with a groan. She hadn’t realized how much the poor fit had hurt her arms and legs. How much Draco’s extra weight would drain her.

Breathless, they crawled up the island’s easternmost point, pushing past spider webs and creeping weeds to take refuge in the nearest fortification. Draco collapsed as soon as they were out of sight. He dropped both bags and rolled onto his back, completely soaked. Hermione joined him on the stone floor, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. 

“A Selkie,” Draco said on a gasp. “I’ll be damned.” 

“You would have been damned,” she corrected. “A few times over. Saved by a Mudblood _and_ a half-breed.” She looked over at him and finished with a pointed, “You’re welcome.” 

He frowned, an arm resting across his forehead. “Lecture me later. I need to sleep.” 

“No, you don’t. That water was freezing. Your lips are blue, and you’re still bleeding everywhere. If you sleep now, you might not wake up again.” 

“Would that be so bad?” 

She canted an eyebrow. “After all I just went through to save you?” 

He released a slow breath, which she interpreted as agreement. She pulled her drawstring bag over and reached inside for her wand. Feeling it against her fingers gave her a rush of relief. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. How much she needed it. 

Hermione cast a large, bluebell fire between them, its warmth immediate and welcome, and then transfigured a small pile of old twigs into a flimsy drying rack. She set it up beside him, half surprised that it remained upright. 

“I’m going to ward the island. You need to get out of those clothes. You can wrap yourself in my cloak.”

“Your _skin_?” he asked, somewhere between curious and repulsed.

“Or stay cold and naked for all I care,” she bit out. “It’s your own fault if you die of exposure. I’ve done my part to save you.” 

She stormed from the fortress and picked her way across the island, casting all the property wards and identifier spells she could remember. She explored the remaining fortifications and learned that they were all connected through a series of subterranean tunnels and covered paths. She knew the structures originated from before the modern era, and that they had been used and re-used by Muggles over the years. She understood why: the place was practically impenetrable. Combined with her wards, she felt reasonably confident that they could survive a Death Eater attack. Or at least their opening salvo. 

Her final task was to transfigure clumsy shades from handfuls of grass, which she affixed to the fortification’s carved windows. She backed away to survey her work. They were far from perfect, but they would hide their firelight from Muggles and menaces alike when it grew dark.

Once Inchgarvie was as secure as she could make it, Hermione rejoined Draco. He had taken her advice: his clothes hung across the improvised drying rack, and he sat with her sealskin draped across his back and over his arms, his legs tented on either side of the bluebell bonfire. 

She blushed at the sight of him, at the humanizing parts she’d never seen before. Strong calves that shone with dark gold hair. A thick, pink scar on the inside of his left knee—the leg with the limp. Delicately boned ankles and pale feet. Long toes with evenly trimmed nails. 

Their eyes locked, but he made no comment about her assessment. She sat beside him, his nylon supply bag between them. She withdrew the whisky bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig. It was a cheap Muggle brand that burned all the way down her throat, but it warmed her better than the fire. She passed it to Draco, who took a long pull. Next, she withdrew a tin of beans. She removed the lid and set it hovering over the fire: their first warm meal in three days. They ate and drank in silence, the afternoon sun shining yellow-green through the transfigured shutters. 

The whisky wound through her system, and only when she was sufficiently relaxed did she feel ready for the inevitable explanations that were owed. 

She went first. 

“How’s your side?” 

“Fine.” 

She clenched her teeth, tempted to call him out, but the tension in his jaw made her reconsider. He was clearly hurting. 

“Will you let me look at it?” she asked instead. 

“You’re not a Healer.” 

“I’ll gladly take you to St. Mungo’s.” The hospital maintained that it was neutral ground. Its entrances, however, were not, and the Order always had lookouts stationed. 

He breathed an impatient laugh. “I’ll take my chances with infection.” 

“Then you’re an idiot.” 

“And why do you bloody care?” He glared at her with bloodshot eyes, his hair hanging limp and greasy to his chin. “You could’ve left me to the Death Eaters on the pier. You could have left me here to die alone. Hell, you still can, but you’re not. _Why_?” 

Hermione’s chest tightened as the wet thuds of corpses hitting the ground echoed in her memory. She had prioritized her and Draco’s survival on the pier. It had been the correct decision, and she’d make it again. 

But it still hurt. 

“I killed two people today,” she said quietly.

Draco scoffed and lifted his hand to flick a few, dismissive fingers. “The Carrows don’t count.” 

“Yes, they do,” she snapped. “They were evil, twisted, and sadistic. No one will miss them or mourn them. But that doesn’t change that they were alive, and now they’re not, and that I’m the one responsible. Maybe _you’ve_ killed enough people for it not to matter, but I haven’t. I don’t enjoy this. I don’t _want_ it.” 

Draco turned his eyes away. “This is war,” he muttered. “You can’t be so attached.” 

“Attachment is the only reason I’m fighting at all. If I didn’t have Harry or Ron—if it was just me you wanted to kill and not the people I care about, the people I _love_ —I would’ve laid down my wand ages ago.” 

“Bullshite.” 

“ _Excuse me_?” 

“Bullshite,” he repeated, louder. “You want to survive this, same as the rest of us.” 

“Yes, I want to survive it, but that doesn’t mean I want to fight! Aren’t you tired of it, Draco?” He flinched as if she’d struck him. “Don’t you ever think about stopping? About running away and trying for a normal life?” 

“Yes,” he said, voice pitched low. 

“But you haven’t,” she pressed. “Why?” 

He didn’t answer. It didn’t matter: she already knew the reason. 

“Because you know that you can’t protect them if you’re dead. It wouldn’t help anything, wouldn’t _change_ anything. You’d be just another blip, a memorial or a mass grave, and whatever good you might’ve been able to do would be buried with you. We’re fighting for the same reasons.” 

“You don’t know why I’m fighting,” he hissed. “You don’t _anything_ about me.” 

“I know we’re headed to Wiltshire.” 

Silence snapped between them, taut as a bowstring. His physical reaction was far more subtle: a tightening of his fingers around her sealskin, his knuckles going white. She felt the hard press of his fingers along her forearms.

“I know that’s where your parents are,” she continued, more measured. “I know you think you’ll be safe there, and that they can help you. But I don’t know why you were stationed all the way up in Inverness. My guess is that either the Dark Lord needed you as leverage to control your parents, or he needed your parents as leverage to control you. Your attachment to them is what’s driving this whole journey, maybe even more than that blood purity propaganda you’ve been force-fed your entire life.” 

“You think you’ve changed me, Granger?” His eyes flashed in the firelight, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think that, after three days with you, I’m ready to renounce my ancestry and join the Order?” 

“I think you’re smarter than you let on,” she said, holding his gaze. “I think that, up until now, you never considered a different way because no one had ever offered you one.” She reached out, resting her hand on his arm. “I’m offering.” 

The olive branch hung between them, gaining weight in the silence. Draco looked away, and Hermione knew she’d lost. 

“You’re a fool,” he said, shutting down the conversation. “A naïve little girl with naïve little hopes.” 

“That might be true,” she admitted. “But, better a naïve little girl than a dead man. You need to let me look at your side.” 

“Shove off.” 

Her fist shot out, knuckling him in his left side. Breath wheezed from his lungs, and his face turned green in the firelight. He rocked to one side, eyes glazed. Hermione caught his arm before he collapsed. 

“Shall I ask again?” 

Draco’s lips pressed together in a thin line. He shook his head. 

“Glad I could convince you.” She pulled the bags close, withdrawing the gin and her field medical kit. “Let down the cloak,” she said. “Let me see.” 

The sealskin drooped, and Hermione’s stomach twisted. 

The gash was rough, its edges jagged and crusted with skin that had burned black along the edges. Bile bit the back of her throat, but she forced herself into calm. 

“I don’t know if I can fix it,” she said, reaching for objectivity through process. “But I can at least disinfect it. Essence of Dittany might help close it. Lie back.” 

“Hold on.” Draco picked up the whisky bottle and took two large sips. He set the near-empty bottle beside him and laid back, keeping her cloak draped along the right side of his chest and over his hips. 

She took in Draco’s lean shoulders and strong arms, and indulged a second of insanity as she imagined them wrapped around her, tender and guiding, exploring her most sensitive parts. It wasn’t him, necessarily. More the idea of intimacy, a nostalgia for the feeling of being known and cherished, if only for a night. 

The moment was fleeting, however; reality took hold once more at the sight of his chest. Scars the width of her index finger crossed his abdomen and pectorals like a lattice. The edges were clean, and if it hadn’t been for the distinctive, pearly sheen of scar tissue, Hermione might have thought them birthmarks. 

But she knew too well how he’d gotten them. 

“Impressive, aren’t they?” Draco didn’t look at her, keeping his eyes safely trained on the low, stone ceiling. But his bitterness was palpable, stinging the back of her throat like old smoke. “Potter’s a shite spellcaster normally, but he really put effort behind this one.” 

Hermione stopped staring and busied herself with uncorking the gin bottle. The air filled with the smell of cheap pine. “It wasn’t his spell.” 

“I know it was Snape’s,” Draco said. “Doesn’t mean it was easy to cast. Intention matters, and Potter…” He trailed off for a moment. “Potter meant it.” 

She pressed a gauze square against the mouth of the bottle, then dabbed at his wound. Draco flinched but didn’t cry out. 

“I didn’t realize the extent of it,” Hermione said. 

“I didn’t exactly advertise it. You might not remember, but I had good reason to keep myself covered during our Sixth Year.” 

From her peripheral vision, Hermione saw the Dark Mark move over the skin of his left forearm. The snake twisted slowly through the skull, its empty eyes staring into oblivion. 

Hermione would never admit it, but the Dark Mark scared her. 

She cleared her throat, trying for nonchalance. “Harry suspected you. I thought he was being absurd. I thought there was no way…” She shook her head. “Not a sixteen year old.” 

“When has age mattered to the Dark Lord?” Draco asked, slurring a bit. The whisky was catching up to him. “He tried to murder a baby.” 

Hermione breathed a dark laugh. “That he did.” 

Once the wound was somewhat cleaner, Hermione used her wand to trim away the dead and burned skin. Draco held perfectly still, as if he felt nothing. And perhaps he didn’t: the nerve endings at the wound site had probably been destroyed. 

She let her eyes drift down his body. Over his hips and the secret structures hidden by the folds of her cloak, stopping at the thick, raised scar that formed a shallow crescent on the interior of his knee.

“What happened to your knee?” 

“Severing hex during the Skirmish of Smallwharf.” 

Hermione paused in her trimming. After the Stalemate of Hogwarts in 1998, the inaccurately named Skirmish at Smallwharf was the largest battle between the Order and the Death Eaters. It had taken place in a coastal village in northern Scotland, where there were rumors of an ancient tunnel leading directly into Hogwarts. The Death Eaters were convinced it existed. They had been scouting the area for months, trying to find the likeliest entrance. The Order had gotten wind of their interest and staged an attack. Since three years of dummy raids and botched assassination attempts had failed to give either side an advantage, Kingsley’s intention had been to end it all, right there. 

Instead, an errant Fiendfyre had burned the entire village to the ground. Predictably, the Death Eaters had fled at the first opportunity, but the surviving Order members had remained to fight the flames. The cursed fire had burned itself out after seventeen hours of raging, when the wind had shifted and the leaping flames had run out of man-made structures to consume. 

Most combatants still bore the burn scars. Smallwharf itself remained abandoned to this day. Many claimed it was haunted. No one questioned the possibility. 

“You were there?” 

His eyes flicked to hers. “You weren’t?” 

Hermione shook her head. “I was making a run down the coast when the intelligence came through. They couldn’t wait for me. How did you survive it?” 

“Mother shoved a Portkey into my hand the second I went down, before the Fiendfyre was cast. She was so quick… I’m half-convinced she planned it with my father. The family elves did their best with it.” He sighed and tented the knee slightly, testing its bend. “Never was the same, though.” 

His eyes grew unfocused as the whisky continued to work its magic. Despite her own pulls from the bottle, Hermione felt stone-sober. This was the most Draco had shared with her since they’d started this misadventure, and he didn’t seem opposed to continuing the conversation. Perhaps there was still hope: a rare second chance to break through to him. 

“Where are your scars, Granger?” 

Thoughts of strategic manipulation receded at the question. Draco looked at her openly, expectantly, and Hermione thought of what Mundungus Fletcher, of all people, had taught her: 

_It’s rare to get without giving_. 

She set her wand down, turned her back to him, and lifted her shirt. A series of five, evenly-spaced scars, about a palm’s length long and two fingers wide at their thickest, raced down her back. The marks began between her shoulder blades and ended just above her buttocks. 

“Boat propeller,” she said ruefully. “I was drifting in what I thought was a no-engine harbor, half-asleep. I didn’t even hear it coming.” 

She gasped at the cold of his fingers. It was the alcohol, she knew; he’d never have touched her otherwise. And as much as his perusal warmed her, the knowledge of the wreckage his hands had caused over their shared time on this planet kept her still. She endured his touch and the weight of his eyes until his hand fell away. 

“How’d you survive it?” 

“Sealskin is resilient.” She lowered her shirt and turned to face him, uncapping the Essence of Dittany. “I stayed in the harbor for a few days as it scabbed over. Once I was sure my blood wouldn’t attract sharks or whales, I got moving again. By the time I reached the Order, they’d pretty much healed. Nothing they could do about the scars. Deep breath now, this is going to sting.” 

She applied a drop of the potion to Draco’s wound. His slow exhale accompanied the hissing appearance of new skin.

“You’ve always been a Selkie?” he asked, the question high-pitched with pain. 

Hermione debated her answer. This part of her history wasn’t something she shared easily. Less so with someone who would revile her for it. But the skin around his eyes was tight and sweat had beaded upon his forehead, dripping down into the tangle of his shaggy hair. 

She already disgusted him. What difference would this make? 

“I found out when I was seven,” she said, dipping her head to check how much skin had regrown. Not enough. “Mum sent me to my grandmother on the Isle of Skye one summer. They didn’t get on, so it was just me. I don’t know if my parents just wanted a summer of their own, or if they knew something about me was different. This happened before any of us had even the slightest clue I was a witch.” 

Another hiss, accompanied by the blood-iron smell of new skin. 

“My grandmother lived in a little cottage on the water, right outside Uig in the north. The first night we were there, she had Granddad drop us in Portree. He gave her a blanket as she got out of the auto, so I thought we were going for a late picnic to watch the sunset. We walked out onto the quay, and she shoved me in. I’d never been swimming before.” 

Draco flinched, either at the application of a third drop or at the twist in her story. She wasn’t sure which. 

“I thought I was drowning,” Hermione continued, “until I suddenly wasn’t. I felt myself change, and then I saw my grandmother. The blanket she’d been carrying was her sealskin. We swam back to Uig together, and she explained our history on the way. She’d been born a Selkie, as had her mother before her, extending back as far as Nan could remember. Part of the falling out between her and mum was that mum wanted nothing to do with it—chose to leave Skye to pursue dentistry in London. Nan hoped I’d be different. We spent the rest of the summer in the ocean, swimming and catching fish. She said it was the most fun she’d been allowed in years.” 

“Allowed?” Draco’s eyes flicked to hers. 

“Nan and Grandad had a fairytale romance,” Hermione said, tone as brittle as salt rime. “She adventured on shore as a young woman, and Granddad stole her sealskin.” 

She let the fourth drop fall; Draco shuddered and looked back at the ceiling. 

“Why didn’t she leave?” he asked.

“She tried. Granddad kept her skin hidden throughout my mother’s childhood. The first time he’d allowed her to have it back was that summer with me. He figured, correctly, that she wouldn’t leave me alone.” 

“Did you ever ask her about it?” 

Hermione shifted. “Yes.” 

Draco prompted her through the expectant silence. “And?” 

“She was in her seventies by then,” Hermione said, applying what she hoped would be the final drop. She made a show of ducking her head, using the guise of checking the wound to hide her own pain at the memory. 

It had been the summer before Hermione turned ten. She’d been pestering Nan for the story of her and Granddad’s romance since she’d arrived, convinced it would be a tale of secret yearning and boundary-defying affection. Nan had dodged the question, but broke down on their final night together. Her story ran entirely counter to the tale of true love Hermione had built in her mind. Her grandfather had forced her grandmother into a landlocked life. He’d trapped her in a house she’d never liked with children she’d never wanted, all because he hadn’t trusted her to choose him over her freedom. 

Horrified, Hermione had asked the same question as Draco. Her Nan had simply smiled, eyes sad and distant as she gave a reply that Hermione had never forgotten: 

_Much is weathered by time and tide_. 

Hermione had lit like a fuse at the defeat in her Nan’s tone, and they’d fought. All three of them, because there was certainly no sparing her grandfather’s role in the matter. And when her mother came to pick her up the next day, Hermione hadn’t offered either of them a single word of gratitude or forgiveness. 

What Hermione hadn’t known—couldn’t have known—was that the summer of 1989 was the last summer she and Nan would share. Nan had died just one month later of a heart attack. Her grandfather had followed not long after, grief-struck and alone. 

Hermione hadn’t apologized to either of them. 

She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. “That should hold for tonight,” she said, probing gently at the shiny, pink layer of skin that now sealed Draco’s wound. It seemed to hold. “I don’t think I need to bandage it, but I can if you’d like.” 

He shook his head. “I’m fine. Granger?” 

She stopped repacking the field kit to look at him.

“Thanks.” 

She kept her expression neutral, tried for a shrug. “I would say you’d do the same for me, but—”

“I wouldn’t.” The admission was stark, filled with something that sounded close to grief. “I would’ve left you to die.” He looked back toward the ceiling, eyes shining, growing distant. “I wasn’t always like this, you know. I was a sweet child. Spoiled, but sweet. All I ever wanted was to do something great and make my family proud. Live up to the history of my surname.” 

She bit her tongue to keep from arguing or pressing the point. Ethanol-inspired wisdom was as changeable as the open sea. He’d have to navigate its waters alone; she had other currents to swim tonight.

Hermione stood and stretched. “It’s getting dark,” she said. “I’m going to dim the fire. You should try to get some rest.” She handed over her mac. “Trade you for the sealskin.” 

Draco’s brows furrowed, and he propped himself up onto his elbows. 

“You’re not leaving.” 

“I am, and you’re in no position to stop me.” 

He struggled to sit up, wincing as the new skin bunched along his side. He fumbled for his wand. Hermione let him palm it and aim. Draco had repeatedly demonstrated his reluctance to do magic the past few days. She didn’t understand why quite yet, but she felt confident that he wouldn’t break that self-imposed rule right now, when their situation was so tenuous. 

“The Order has a safe house in Edinburgh.” 

She let the statement hang, allowing it the proper space to inflate. Both sides closely guarded the locations of their safe houses. Knowledge of a safe house city was reason enough to relocate it and, circumstances aside, there was nothing stopping Draco from shouting it from the rooftops for his fellow Death Eaters. But if the Carrows had been telling the truth, there might not be a need for that now. 

His wand lowered a fraction. “You might not like what you find.” 

“It’s better than not knowing.” 

“And if they are?”

He didn’t finish the question, and he didn’t have to. Hermione knew what he meant. 

“Then nothing has changed.” 

“And if they aren’t?” 

“Then everything has.” 

On impulse, she reached behind her neck and unclasped a necklace: a thin gold chain hung with a phoenix pendant. The bird’s wings were extended, and its eye shone with a ruby chip. Hermione had received it from her parents on her seventeenth birthday, and it was all she had left of them. 

It meant more to her than Draco could ever know. 

She held it out for him.

“Collateral,” she said, voice on the edge of breaking. She forced her fingers to loosen, and the necklace slid onto Draco’s open palm. “I’ll be back for that.” 

“Alone?” 

“I don’t know. And that’s your choice to make. If you’re here when I return, then I can guarantee your safety with the Order.” 

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll be your prisoner.” 

“Yes, but you won’t be killed. The Order will try to use you, turn you, and I’ll help them however I can. If you’re not here when I return…” She shrugged, struggling to find the words. “If you’re not here, then I wish you luck. Truly.” 

He considered the pile of gold in his palm, then closed his fingers around it. “Fine.” He set down his wand and offered up a corner of the sealskin. Hermione took it, averting her eyes as it slid from his hips. 

She walked to the fortress door and stood at its threshold, where the sea smell was strongest. Where the air was cool and the firelight failed to cast away the gray evening shadows. She stripped her socks first, followed by trousers, shirt, and undergarments, all the while keenly aware of Draco’s eyes. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin and heard a small intake of breath as she shimmied her knickers down her legs. She couldn’t bear the thought of looking at him then. His disgust or his interest would have been equally as damaging. 

She tossed the knife from her waistband toward the fire. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

“An insurance policy,” she answered. “I didn’t need to use it.”

She drew her sealskin over her shoulders and yearned for the sea. The transformation took hold, seamlessly sending her to the ground. She picked up her wand, holding it delicately between her teeth as she bounced herself down the cooling scrub grass. She slid silently from the rocky shore into cold, freeing water of the North Sea, barely a ripple in her wake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Hermione caught an eastward current and let it hurry her to Edinburgh. She breached at the familiar Newhaven Lighthouse. Night and the temperature had fallen sufficiently to send people into their homes, so Hermione heaved herself onto the dock in the harbor and shed her skin.

She folded the sealskin over her arm and Disillusioned herself with a sharp rap to the top of her head. She made her way over the docks and into the city proper at a careful half-jog. Disillusionments weren’t foolproof, but they were more effective at night, when the light didn’t refract and glimmer. 

The streets were empty, the sidewalks bare, and she navigated through the district without issue. She turned down a side street and used her wand to tap a precise pattern of knocks on the door. 

It unlatched, swinging forward on silent hinges and granting her entry into a dark storage space. She mounted the stairs to the living level, wand drawn. It was near midnight, so quiet was to be expected. It was also George and Lee, so this brand of quiet—total, weighty, and tense—felt wrong. She paused at the top of the stairs. 

“ _Homenum Revelio_.” 

Nothing. 

Her stomach fell, dread creeping over her like an unwelcome fog. After locking the door behind her with a quick charm, Hermione sent a _Lumos_ into the living level. She took a breath, braced herself, rounded the corner, and immediately sagged against the wall. 

George and Lee lay sprawled upon the floor, necks slit like bloody smiles. Arterial sprays arced across the threadbare sofa, the papered walls, and the white ceiling. Their wands lay beside them, spellfire evidenced by singed holes punched through the walls and a dining table blown to pieces. They’d fought and fought hard. 

Hermione sheathed her wand and shuffled forward on numb legs. She sank to the floor between them, closing their empty eyes with a touch. 

Time blurred as she mourned them, hours passing as minutes, or perhaps minutes as seconds. What was the point of it all? What did their deaths mean, in the grand scheme? The Edinburgh connection was lost, but only for now. It would be relocated, re-staffed. They were replaceable. 

Only one person wasn’t. Only Harry.

He had to end this. 

It had to _end_. 

Knees sore and creaking, Hermione got to her feet and drew her wand. There was not enough happiness in the world to summon a corporeal Patronus, but the Order needed to know. She closed her eyes. 

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” A faint, white wisp appeared. She whispered to it. “Edinburgh has been compromised. George Weasley and Lee Jordan deceased. Safe house cleared by Hermione Granger.” 

She paused. Patronuses were not often sent; too easily intercepted, too easily adulterated. She couldn’t risk telling too much of her plans. Or of Draco. 

“Heading south over land. I suffered a serpent’s bite, but the path ahead remains green.” 

Vague, but hopefully it was enough. 

She swept the house next, moving room by room, her exploration methodical and thorough. George and Lee were experienced enough not to store Order intelligence, but there were other things worth keeping. She found a bag hanging on the door to George’s room. She Extended and waterproofed it, gathering what she could not bear to lose: a photo of Fred, George, and Lee, framed and set bedside; a cache of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products; George and Lee’s wands. 

She ended in the kitchen. An inventory of their cupboards served to restock her own food supply. She debated over two bottles of vodka and ended up taking them both, then collected their entire array of Potions for Healing and sleep. At the top of the staircase, she turned for a final look. With a whispered curse, she set it alight. A slow flame that knew its boundaries and burned hot enough to consume flesh and bone. By morning, there would be no trace of them. 

The journey back to Inchgarvie was long. Hermione struggled against the current and the drag of the bag across her shoulders. When she made land, still under cover of darkness, she was fully exhausted. She shed her skin with a shudder and dragged herself up the rocks, which cut against the soft soles of her bare feet. 

Draco was still there. He sat with her raincoat bunched over his hips, her phoenix pendant dangling from his fingers, glinting in the strange blue firelight. 

She looked at him, bleary eyed, and dropped her sealskin for the pile of clothes she’d shucked a couple hours earlier.

“Thought you’d be gone,” she said. 

“So did I.” Draco watched her dress. She was beyond caring. Let him look if he wanted to. 

Hermione tossed the new bag to him. “Replenished our supplies. We should consolidate.” 

She tried to sound dispassionate, but reality rose like a tide around her. The actualization of _why_ she’d been able to replenish those supplies. What it had cost the world for her to gain a few days of food. Grief wrapped itself like a noose around her throat. She didn’t try to speak. 

“Are you okay?” 

She shook her head. 

“What do you need?” 

Draco’s attempts at empathy were enough to pull the noose taut. She cracked under the strain and fell to her knees, the sobs coming freely. Her chest heaved, she couldn’t breathe, and then his arms wound around her, pressing her back against his chest. He held her tightly, but even so, her breaths seemed to come a little easier. He eased her down before the fire and curled himself around her, his knees tucking up under hers. He pillowed her head with his arm. 

Draco offered no other comfort than the presence of his body: the warmth of a person who had grieved his own losses in his own time. She neither asked nor needed any more from him. Eventually, she fell asleep in his arms.

* * *

Hermione woke mid-morning to the smell of warm beans. Draco had pulled away from her at some point last night, leaving her sealskin folded like a pillow beneath her head. He’d dressed and perhaps attempted to wash with the soap she’d brought from the Edinburgh safe house. At least their eastern fortress smelled a measure less ripe. 

Hermione rubbed the crust from her sore eyes and sat up. Draco offered her the bean tin and a canteen of water. 

“We need a next step,” he said.

Hermione nodded. Inchgarvie’s fortress was a welcome respite, but temporary by nature. The Death Eaters would surely look here once they realized that the Carrows had failed their objective. Draco seemed to be thinking along the same lines. 

“They’ll have deployed a scout by now,” he said. “Maybe two. Once they have our most likely location, they’ll attack. We have until nightfall, by my estimate. We need to get to Wiltshire before then.” 

She looked up from her tin. Though Draco hadn’t changed at all, he looked different to her now. A shred of humanity colored his eyes, a spark of light within the matte gray. 

“You still plan on using me as leverage?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

Her hackles rose. “I thought you wanted out. You were still here last night, I thought that meant—”

“Weasley and Jordan are dead,” he reminded her. Needlessly, but not cruelly: it was a statement of fact. “Nothing’s changed.” 

“The Order can still help you. I can still—”

“It’s not just about me, is it?” His eyes flashed, and she must have recoiled because he took a steadying breath. “You were right about my parents,” he admitted on the exhale. “He’s using them, and I need them out. If not both, then at least my mother. We get them, and the Order gets me. Full cooperation. Those are my terms.” 

“How do I know I can trust you?” 

“Because we’re in this together now. Our fates are tied.” 

Hermione looked back down at the empty tin. That was right: she’d saved his life. He was indebted to her now, and the connection ran far deeper than a promise. He was obligated to her. 

“Why haven’t you been using magic?” 

His back straightened and expression turned guarded. “Now isn’t the time.” 

“It is,” she said. “If we’re in this together, then we need to understand what we’re working with. No more secrets.” 

She saw the debate within him. And the acquiescence. He held out his left forearm, where the Dark Mark undulated across his pale skin. 

“It’s a summoner and tracker,” he said. “Whenever any Death Eater performs magic, the Dark Lord knows our location.” 

“How?” 

“You think he’d tell me?” Draco’s voice was incredulous. “Or anyone else? He knows, and that’s enough.” 

“That’s why you didn’t want to Apparate,” she said as the pieces connected. “Or cast an Impervius or a warming charm.”

He nodded. “The spells I cast yesterday will bring them to Queensferry. I’d rather not cast any leaving. Apparition leaves a double-ended trace—where you were and where you are.” 

“Can you use my wand?” 

“No. Even if your wand let me, it’s still my magic, just through a different vessel.” 

“And if I take you via Side-Along?” 

He raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t know. It’s magic acting on me, but not magic I’ve cast. It would be a risk.” 

Hermione frowned. It was quite a big risk. Even if they Apparated to an Order safe house, its residents wouldn’t be prepared for a fight if the Death Eaters followed. They’d have the advantage of familiar ground, but not much else. 

“Can we steal a broom?” She’d made the suggestion, but her stomach still turned at the thought. Hermione suffered from motion sickness and much preferred flying through the water than through the air. 

“Do we have the time? We’d need to find a shop, disable or break through the security charms, and then evade Magical Law Enforcement as well as the Death Eaters. Not like there’s much of a difference,” he ceded with a roll of his eyes. “Besides, don’t we already have an alternate mode of transport?” 

His eyes dropped to her sealskin. Hermione pressed her hand into it, the familiar warmth providing little comfort in the face of his request. 

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “The ocean waters are freezing. You’d become hypothermic.” 

“We’d take breaks.” 

“They’d have to be long ones. I’d be carrying you and our bags. The Queensferry pier to here exhausted me. I could take us short distances—down the coast a few miles, so long as the current was friendly—but neither of us would be good for much else afterward. We’d need recovery time, and if we’re fighting time—” 

“We are.”

“Then we shouldn’t rely on the sea.”

Draco frowned. “We need to get off the island.” 

“I know. I think Apparition is our best bet.”

“Granger—”

“We could cover extensive ground that way,” she said, counting off the advantages on her fingers. “I know London well enough to get us there in one piece. If any Death Eaters do follow us, the city is large enough to lose them. It’s our safest option.” 

“We have a large cell in London,” Draco said. “Large enough to cause trouble if something goes wrong.” 

“The Order has a house there, too,” she said. “Any trouble your side makes would be matched by mine.” In fact, London was the Order’s headquarters, but she didn’t feel the need to clarify that particular point. Tied though their fates might be, and however intent Draco seemed on defecting, he’d not yet done so. Until he and his parents were safely in Order custody, until he was vetted via Legilimency and Veritaserum, she had to assume he was playing her.

“So, we get to London, hide from both our sides, and keep heading toward Wiltshire,” he summarized. 

She nodded. As a next step, it wasn’t bad. But there was more to consider. “How many people are at Malfoy Manor?” 

“Just my parents.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes. They fell out of favor after the Stalemate at Hogwarts. The Dark Lord relocated his headquarters.” 

“To where?” 

His eyes narrowed. “You think I’d tell you?” 

She took the leap. “It’s the Isle of Man, isn’t it?” 

Draco said nothing. Just kept his gaze steady, giving her all the confirmation she needed. The Order had long suspected that Voldemort had claimed the island for himself. 

“Have you been there?” she asked. “What have you seen?” 

Draco shook his head. “Amnesty first, then information. To that end, when do we leave?” 

“What time is it?” 

Draco checked his watch. “Nearly noon.” 

“Let’s pack up, then,” she said. “The wards I cast are probably expired by now, and I don’t want to give your people any more opportunity than necessary to find us.” 

A stranger’s voice echoed from the western wall, a hissing amusement that made the hair on Hermione’s arms stand straight. 

“ _Too late_ ,” it said.

Hermione swept her wand sideways. A gust of wind toppled Draco from his seat, sending him skidding across the stone floor. He collided with the wall, an _oof_ of breath driven from his lungs. The curse meant for him struck her instead, a rocket of violent orange that exploded in her face, sending her backwards and multiplying her senses. 

One thousand bright lights appeared behind her eyes as her head struck the floor. Shouts echoed around her, magnified, deafening. She pressed her hands to her ears and rolled to what she hoped was a shadowed corner. She blinked, her eyes straining to focus on just one of the kaleidoscope of figures scrabbling in the fortress’ dim blue light. Sunlight exploded through one of the windows, its temporary covering blasted off by a spell. 

There was the flat crack of one hundred fists against one hundred jaws. The crunch of a dozen noses breaking. The gurgling cry of one man pinned. Draco’s hand squeezed their assailant’s bloodied throat, and the handle of Hermione’s contraband knife jutted from his shoulder. Draco’s chest heaved as he pressed a knee into the man’s sternum. Head continuing to clear, Hermione found her wand and crawled over, pressing the tip of it to the Death Eater’s temple. She recognized him: Scabior.

“Who else is with you?” Draco asked, his question breaking free between clenched teeth. 

Scabior’s mouth stretched in a blood-stained smile. “Kill me if you want, traitor. I’ll die knowing the worst has already been done.” 

“ _Who else_?”

Scabior began to laugh, dark eyes rolling, and he spat a gob of bloody phlegm onto Draco’s cheek. 

Hermione cast. 

A delicate, Dark spell, one of the few she could stomach, sent a small worm of electricity through the nerves at Scabior’s temple. The slow-moving current spread through his neural network like a fungus, triggering his synapses and sending constant spasms of pain through the affected area. The longer she held it, the deeper he hurt. 

The veins in Scabior’s neck bulged beneath Draco’s fingers. Hermione counted five seconds before a scream rasped from his throat, the sound of his kicking heels reverberating through the stone fortress. 

Hermione ended the spell, and the pain disappeared. No lasting harm done. 

“Who else is with you?” Draco asked again.

“No one.” Scabior’s eyes flicked toward Hermione, blown wide with fear. “Just one to deliver this message: your parents are _dead_.” 

Draco loosed his hold on Scabior’s neck just long enough to drive his fist into the man’s jaw. Hermione heard the crack of bone and flinched when Scabior spat out a tooth. 

“You’re lying.” 

“The Dark Lord knows of your betrayal,” he hissed, chest rising off the floor. “Your mother went first. Flayed alive, I hear, by the Dark Lord himself. Your father cried as he watched, and begged for the end. Your aunt obliged him.” Another bloody grin. “Eventually.” 

Hermione caught Draco’s fist before he could land another blow. He looked over at her, eyes wild and snapping with rage. 

“Let me go.” 

“We need more,” she said to him. Then, turning to Scabior: “When did this happen?” 

He glared at her. “Mudblood bi—”

Hermione applied the spell again, eyes and heart hardened as she listened to Scabior’s shrieks. When she ended the spell, sweat had beaded on his forehead. She could see his pulse racing at his throat. 

“This morning.” 

“How did he know?” 

Scabior’s eyes turned back to Draco. “Wasn’t just the Carrows stationed here. One of Fenrir’s pack was ordered to hang back. To survive and get the story. You thought you were so careful,” the Death Eater said with a laugh. “But the Dark Lord always knows. He will always _know_.” 

“I’ve heard enough.” Draco put his hands on either side of Scabior’s head and, with a heave, struck his skull against the stone floor. 

Hermione’s stomach flipped at the sickening crack. Scabior’s eyes fluttered closed, and Hermione did not linger to find out if he were dead or unconscious. She lurched toward the eastern point door and retched into the scrub grass. Draco nudged her shoulder, holding a canteen out for her. She took it, swished and spit to rinse her mouth, then took a small sip to clear her throat. 

“We need to get to Malfoy Manor,” Draco said. “Now.” 

“He’ll know,” she croaked, straightening, trying to ignore the blood spattered across Draco’s chin. “I can’t Apparate us—”

“You can,” he said. “The drawing room. You remember it?” 

The room where she’d been tortured. She’d never forget it. It was an unusual space: marble columns in the Doric style; a dark wood floor; arched wooden beams along the ceiling; balconies on either end; a grand chandelier, little more than shards now. Phantom pain set her nerves aflame. Nevertheless, Hermione fisted her hands and set her chin. 

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.” 

He held out her drawstring pack for her. She slung it over her shoulders. 

“Take us there.” 

“Isn’t that what they’ll expect?” 

“Probably, but I need to know,” Draco muttered. 

Hermione shifted her weight, unconvinced. “What if they’re still there?” 

“They won’t be. The manor is without a master. Anyone who remained after Lucius took his last breath will have been transported to outside the front gates. I have no doubt that Bellatrix has started processing the property transfer, but until she updates the family ledger in her Gringotts vault, the manor will have closed to everyone but me.” 

“Including me?” 

Draco frowned; she’d identified a hitch in his plan. He stood before her, his mind working through the options. Hermione waited patiently. Draco knew the Malfoy magic better than she ever could, understood the rules and bindings of his ancestral home and the natural loopholes that existed to bypass them. 

Without a warning, Draco took her right hand. He pulled the signet ring off her middle finger, took her left hand, and shoved the ring past the knuckle of her fourth finger. The ring tightened, grew warm, and before she could yank her hand away, Draco pulled her forward.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue and met his with the clash of hot breath and the click of teeth. Her knees buckled as his hands cupped her face, holding her steady as he kissed her. Urgent and impatient, the movement of his lips and sweep of his tongue felt both like a curse and a promise. 

Hermione’s heart began to race. 

It felt like a vow. 

He let her go, eyes half-lidded and uncharacteristically soft. He pressed another kiss—soft this time, chaste, almost penitent—against the corner of her mouth. “Let’s go.” 

“What did you do?” she whispered, cold with dawning horror. She looked down at the ring on her left hand, disbelieving. 

“I solved one of our problems,” he said, taking her arm. “You’re welcome.”

“Take it back.” She tried to pull the ring off, but her fingers kept slipping. She couldn’t find purchase against the tight metal. “I don’t. I _don’t_.” 

“Get us out of here, Granger.” 

“Please.” She fisted her hands in his shirt and looked up at him with tearful eyes. “Please, take it back. I don’t want this.” 

“Neither did my parents.” She didn’t know if he meant their marriage or their assumed deaths. “We’re running out of time.” He dragged her by the hand to the eastern point of Inchgarvie, just a few feet from the waterline. The _shush_ of the waves against the rocks steadied her somewhat. Pulled her from her spiraling panic and reminded her of the world beyond the confines of her own disastrous life. 

Draco was right. There’d been a problem; he’d solved it. There was no love between them, nothing that would keep them together once their hellish, _ad hoc_ rescue mission reached its end. It wasn’t permanent. 

It couldn’t be. 

But as she steadied herself for Apparition, she heard the echo of her grandmother’s voice in her mind. 

_Much is weathered by time and tide_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Hermione Apparated them to the center of Malfoy Manor’s drawing room.

A deathly quiet hung over the manor, its interior dark despite the noontime sun shining outside. A shudder crawled down Hermione’s spine, and sweat broke out beneath her arms and across her palms. They shouldn’t be here. This place was wrong, and it would bring them nothing but pain. 

Draco dropped her hand, though Hermione was uncomfortable enough that she wouldn’t have minded holding onto him a little while longer. 

“This way.” 

Draco kept his wand unlit, comfortable with the dark, twisting hallways of his childhood home. Hermione stayed close behind, unreasonably afraid of getting lost. They moved quickly and quietly, the fall of their footsteps prompting whispered questions from some of the portraits. They ignored the comments, hurrying up the curving stairs and turning west. 

Light flickered through a partially cracked door at the end of a dark hallway. An iron-rich miasma hung in the air. Draco stopped, his hands curled into fists. 

“Draco…” 

She wanted to help him, but didn’t know what to offer. Her fingers drifted toward his, and the back of their hands brushing prompted him into movement. He strode down the hall like a man approaching the gallows, long since resigned to his fate. Hermione kept a step behind him until they reached the cracked door. Then, he held out a staying hand. 

It felt wrong to let him go alone. She took his wrist. He looked back at her, eyes flickering like silver candles in the unsteady light. An understanding beneath words passed between them, and Draco turned away from her. Together, they rounded the threshold. 

Scabior had been telling the truth. 

The scene defied sense. Hermione’s eyes could not rest for too long in one place before instinctively moving to another, lingering only long enough to register the whole of the carnage without letting her identify its component parts. Draco’s breathing quickened. When the sound of air wheezing through his throat finally broke through her numbness, he was in the midst of a full blown panic attack. 

Hermione dragged him from the room and followed him to the floor. He sank against the wall, folded uncomfortably: knees at his chest, elbows past his knees, head sunk into his hands. She’d had her share of panic attacks and had watched others in the Order dissolve in similar ways. The only way out was through, and there was nothing she could do but be present. 

With some effort, she shifted Draco away from the wall and placed herself behind him. She spread her legs and moved close, wrapping her arms around his heaving chest and placing her cheek on the flat space between his shoulder blades. Ginny often got like this, late at night when she lingered too long on how much she had to lose. They would sit together for hours, breathing and crying, trading deep-seated fears and secret dreams that bordered on hopeful. 

Hermione closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Her inhales were deliberate, her exhales purposeful, and the movement of her chest against Draco’s back forced him to match her cadence. Once he’d steadied, she lifted her head and dropped her arms. She shifted away from him, breaking all contact. She needed to separate herself from reality, to somehow ignore the fact that she’d been the one holding him together as he threatened to shatter. To forget that she’d fulfilled part of the silent contract that had allowed her access to the manor in the first place. 

Draco, however, was unable to achieve the same level of detachment. He couldn’t meet her eyes. 

“We can’t stay here,” he said to his shoes. 

“I know. What do you want to do with…” She swallowed thickly. Only a request from him would make her enter that room again; she would not do it on her own. 

“Wait here.” Draco struggled to his feet like a man three times his age, moving as though his very bones ached. Slowly, he walked back into his parents’ bedroom. Hermione pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, the sting of tears hot behind them. 

Draco’s footsteps were halting. She heard multiple clatters and sharp, tinkling sounds, like small glasses being shattered. He rejoined her in the hallway after a few minutes, two wands clutched in his left hand, a small latched box in his right. He didn’t offer an explanation as to what was inside of it, and she didn’t ask. 

Hermione followed him through the abandoned manor once more, the shadows receding as light began to penetrate the windows. He shoved open a pair of double doors and backed away, allowing her an unobstructed view of the Malfoy library. 

“Dark texts on the left, magical histories in the middle, family histories on the right,” he explained. “Take what you want, but don’t take long.” 

She stopped gaping long enough to catch his sleeve. “Where are you going?” 

“To take care of the elves.” His tone made her cold. Her grip tightened. 

“You’re not going to kill them.” 

“No,” he said, clearly insulted. “Flattering, by the way. Thanks for that.” 

She shrugged away his indignation. “They’re property to you,” she said lightly.

“They _raised_ me,” he countered. “I’m going to let them go or send them to Hogwarts, their choice. But it needs to happen before ownership passes to my aunt.” 

“Go then,” she said, turning back to the library before he could see the tears in her eyes. She continued to underestimate him. Would she ever understand his true measure? “I’ll be fine here.” 

He walked away, and Hermione lost herself amid the shelves, skimming through the titles and choosing any that sounded promising. After a confirmatory glance, she either tossed the tome onto the ground or set in a hovering stack behind her. She’d made it halfway through the Dark section when Draco returned. 

“It’s time to go.” 

“But I haven’t—”

He gathered the floating books and shoved them into his backpack. “You have enough.” 

She looked at the room’s opposite side. “What about your family histories?”

“Let them burn.” 

“Burn?” And that’s when she smelled the smoke. Hermione looked at Draco in horror, taking his hand as she stepped down from the rolling ladder. “What have you done?” 

“Secured my legacy,” he said with a grim smile. “The property charms can’t protect against Fiendfyre.” 

Hermione went cold and looked at the fortune of books around her. It would all be lost. “Why?”

“Because if I can’t have it, then no one can.”

He grabbed her arm, and they wound through Malfoy Manor in a half-jog. The fire caught behind them, its roar growing in intensity until it shook the portraits from the walls. Shouts and curses from Draco’s ancestors chased them down the halls. Pleas for help and rescue, consistently ignored. Vases shattered, knocked from their positions upon decorative end tables, and there was a distant crash as a suit of armor tipped over. The hallways filled with thick, black smoke; they ducked to escape its sting. 

By the time they reached the rear garden, Hermione felt heat against her back. She couldn’t claim to like Malfoy Manor: her only memories of the place were filled with pain, blood, and death. But, neither did she feel joy in its loss. The old house was beautiful in a unique, Gothic way, full of irreplaceable and invaluable history. 

A history from which Draco had _permanently _divorced himself.__

__He tugged her into motion, but she resisted, pulling him to a stop. Draco had agreed to defect with her. He’d saved her, married her, kissed her, burned down his entire life—everything he’d ever had—without second thought and, seemingly, without regret._ _

__Ever since they’d met, Hermione thought she’d known a single, inviolable truth about Draco Malfoy. But after all she’d witnessed and all they’d been through together, she had to wonder…_ _

__Had she been wrong?_ _

__“I disgust you,” she said, more statement than question. “My parentage. My dirty blood. You hate me.”_ _

__“Now is not the time,” he said with a growl._ _

__“You just burned it down!” She threw an arm out at the manor. Glass shattered as the force of the fire blew out a window. “You destroyed everything you had, everything you’ve ever known. If now isn’t the time, then when is?”_ _

__“Perhaps when we haven’t lit a beacon for my mad aunt? Besides, it wasn’t worth keeping.”_ _

__“None of it?”_ _

__“I saved what mattered.”_ _

__He was avoiding her question, skimming the surface without dipping even a toe below the waterline. The careful answers of a practiced liar._ _

__“Draco.” Their eyes met. “We’ve come all this way together. I need to know. I _deserve_ to know.” _ _

__He glared, then looked past her. Something hooked his gaze, tugged him past aggravation and into introspection. His eyes grew unfocused for a moment._ _

__“You were never what I expected,” he said, almost to himself. “You were always _more_. Smarter, faster, cleverer… A yardstick I could never meet. I didn’t understand it then, how you were everything I was told you couldn’t be. You defied sense. Defied _nature_. But now…” His eyes refocused, shifted to her, and the feeling behind them made her heart lurch. “Now, I think I’m starting to.”_ _

__It was hardly a declaration of friendship. Hell, it was barely more than forced tolerance. But she took it anyway, a secret held safe. A vine of trust creeping across the desert between them._ _

__“Okay,” she nodded. “Okay.”_ _

__He muttered something she didn’t catch and tugged her back into motion, leading her toward a rear shed that was as large as a single-family house. A silent spell caused the lock to explode from the latch. The doors swung wide. Inside, arranged in neat racks, were brooms of every make, model, and size._ _

__Draco held out his hand, wordlessly summoning a Firebolt with golden tail twigs and a handle that had been polished to a high sheen. He looked at her, expectant. She grabbed the one nearest to her, dark cherry with a wide tail, not nearly as sleek or streamlined as the one Draco had chosen. Hopefully that meant it was slower._ _

__Draco raised an eyebrow at her choice but said nothing. He cast a quick incendiary charm over his shoulder as they left, and Hermione followed him into the sky. He set himself hovering and stared with dispassionate eyes at the wreckage of his former home. The Fiendfyre had consumed the structure with a roar of whipping flames. Hermione flinched at the _boom_ of a small explosion, jerking on the broom and sending her back several feet. _ _

__Draco spared her a look. “Loosen your hold.”_ _

__She looked back, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding.”_ _

__“It’s like swimming,” he said. “Trust the broom to carry you like you trust a current. Just float.”_ _

__“The ocean won’t send me plummeting to the ground.”_ _

__“No,” he agreed. “It will drown you.”_ _

__Hermione bit her tongue, but loosened her hold. The broom’s tremors lessened._ _

__They watched until the first beam fell, caving in the roof over where they’d discovered his parents’ bodies. Cursed fire gouted into the sky. She could feel its heat, the sting unwelcome even in the chilled air._ _

__“We should go,” she said._ _

__Draco nodded and turned his broom east. She flew abreast of him, velocity steady, destination undecided. The sky turned orange behind them, aglow with the setting sun as the way ahead grew dark. Hermione flew closer and shouted over the wind._ _

__“There!”_ _

__His eyes followed the point of her finger to a barn set amidst a fallow field. No lights shone from the windows of its farmhouse, and no autos were parked in its long, gravel drive. It looked abandoned._ _

__Draco dove at a steep angle toward the ground. Hermione took her time, flying a winding and smooth descent. Draco stood impatiently in the farmhouse's shadow, watching as she landed. She felt unsteady after so long in the air and walked stiffly toward the door. She unlocked it with a prod, pausing a moment to listen after the deadbolt disengaged with a _thunk_. She pulled the screen door wide and propped it open with a hip. The front door squealed on unoiled hinges as she eased it open. Her _Homenum Revelio_ yielded no results. _ _

__“It’s safe,” she said, stepping inside. Draco locked the door behind her and paced the ground level while she checked the upstairs. They reconvened at the landing._ _

__“Clear,” he confirmed. “There’s a water pump out back and a bit of food in their underground cellar.”_ _

__“Two bedrooms,” she reported, “and a water closet with a tub.”_ _

__Honest relief showed on his face. She felt the same way. It had been far too long since her last bath._ _

__They moved on individual tracks for a time, the separation much needed after four days of constant contact. Hermione magicked water into the tub, heated it, and had herself a soak, working out the kinks in her hair with an old bottle of shampoo she’d found beneath the sink._ _

__Finally clean, she scrounged new clothes from the bureau drawers. The previous tenants had been older, judging from the selection: wool stockings, hardy denim trousers, flannel shirts with worn elbows. She chose a house dress for the night, a green tartan pattern that reminded her of Minerva McGonagall. It hung off her shoulders, shapeless and warm. Her hair hung loose and damp around her shoulders._ _

__Draco was downstairs in the kitchen. He looked up from his meal of baked potato, preserved peas, and salted jerky, his eyes wide with surprise. “Comfortable?”_ _

__“For the first time in a long time,” she said, fetching herself a plate. She spooned peas onto it and took a few slices of jerky._ _

__“Your potato is on the stove.”_ _

__He nodded toward the wood-burning stove behind him, which crackled with a cheery fire. Atop it sat an overturned pot. She lifted the lid and saw the promised potato, steam rising from its brown skin. She rolled it onto her plate with a fork. It felt like a peace offering._ _

__“Thank you.” She cut it open and suffered a moment of internal debate before saying, “If you want to bathe after dinner, I can fill and warm the tub for you.” She blushed and busied herself with a forkful of cold peas; the offer had sounded less awkward in her head._ _

__“I’d appreciate that.”_ _

__She nodded, and they passed the rest of the meal in silence. Draco surprised her by taking her plate to the sink, though she doubted he intended to wash it any more than she did. Their eyes met, and Hermione knew it was time to make good on her promise._ _

__It felt strangely domestic, extinguishing the downstairs lights and walking into the master bedroom with him. They’d been forced into all sorts of intimacies over the past few days, gritty realities of coexistence that were glossed over in Odyssean tales. Sights, smells, and sounds that crossed boundaries of propriety. Emotional breakdowns that would have damaged all but the strongest of friendships. But because they were unavoidable, they became—to a certain extent—unremarkable._ _

__This was different._ _

__This was a choice Hermione was making: to help him fulfill the basic human need for cleanliness. It was a task he could have accomplished manually. She could’ve made him pump the water, heat it slowly over the wood stove, and haul it up the stairs a few gallons at a time. The task would have left him exhausted, hardly able to enjoy his efforts. But it would have let her crawl beneath the moth-eaten sheets a few minutes sooner._ _

__Instead, she stood beside the clawfoot tub. Hot water poured from the tip of her wand as Draco leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, expression inscrutable. Once it was full, she turned to leave, barely able to meet his gaze. He stopped her with a hand as she passed._ _

__“Granger.”_ _

__Her heart thudded against her ribcage, a swallow stuck in her throat. She looked up at him._ _

__“Don’t go too far.”_ _

__He let her go once she nodded, and Hermione leaned against the closed door for a moment in an attempt to gather her composure. A composure which crumbled the moment she heard his clothes hit the floor. She hurried from the room, picking up his backpack and her drawstring pack on the way. Best not to think about what he might be doing in the bath._ _

__Performing an inventory would be an appropriate distraction. Hermione cast a light in the second bedroom and sat down upon the bed. The old frame creaked as it took her weight, and the mattress sagged, its springs worn from age and use. She emptied both bags, surprised at how full they were. Draco had restocked their food supplies from Malfoy Manor’s kitchens. They now had a selection of preserved fruits and vegetables, and enough meat, bread, and cheese to last several weeks. He’d taken a few sweets, too: several bars of chocolate, a large handful of soft caramels, a bag of candied ginger, a few loose mints._ _

__Hermione divided the stores out between them, then did the same with the books. Both packs were charmed to be Featherlight, negating the issue of weight, but she did not want them to be resource constrained if they were separated or if a bag were destroyed or lost._ _

__She was stowing the final items when Draco appeared at the threshold. His platinum blond hair hung a little past his chin, pin-straight now that it was clean. He, too, had rummaged through the bureau and donned clothes several sizes too big. Drawstring flannels hung low on his hips, and an overlarge t-shirt showed an indecent amount of his collarbone. She’d seen him with less—much less. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what lay beneath his clothes that made her blush._ _

__“I’ve reorganized,” she said, as if it weren’t obvious. Anything to break the drawing silence. “Thank you for restocking us.”_ _

__“I didn’t know how much we’d need. I tried to take enough for another week.”_ _

__“I don’t think we’ll need that long.” Hermione unfolded herself from the bed and held the backpack out for him._ _

__“London?” he guessed._ _

__She nodded. “You’ve already decided to leave them, and now they know it. There’s nowhere else you can go.”_ _

__His eyes hardened, and Hermione realized too late that an ultimatum was the worst possible thing she could have given him. He snatched the bag from her, turned on his heel, and stormed across the hall to the master bedroom. She followed him, hand outstretched._ _

__“Wait, that’s not what I—”_ _

__“I’m not running to the Order because I have to,” he said, tossing her an over-the-shoulder glare. “ _If_ I go at all, it will be because I’ve chosen to.” _ _

__“I know, that’s what I—”_ _

__He rounded on her. “I didn’t have a choice with _them_ ,” he spat, holding his left forearm between them. “I took the Mark because it was _expected_. Because if I didn’t, something even worse would happen. Now, that something worse _has_ happened. I might have lost my family, but I still have my pride. I won’t be used again.” _ _

__“I know.”_ _

__“I’ve learned my lesson.”_ _

__“I _know_. Draco…” She took his wrist and covered his Dark Mark with her other hand, suppressing a shudder as the ink moved beneath her palm. “I’m not going to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with. I know what you’ve lost. My parents…” Grief stoppered her throat. She forced the words through. “They’re gone, too. I know how it feels to be unmoored. Like the water’s rising and you don’t know how to swim. I’m asking you to trust the Order. They need you.” _ _

__“And you?” His eyes glittered like stars. She loosened her grip, unsure of what he was asking. Of how much to yield._ _

__“We need each other,” she said, conscious of how the admission shifted the air between them. She let her fingers fall from his wrist and forearm, trailing across his skin. “Sleep on it. We don’t need to make any decisions tonight.”_ _

__Draco caught her wrist as she turned to leave. “Where are you going?”_ _

__“To the second bedroom.”_ _

__“No.” Her heart began to race again. “We’re safer together,” he said. “And the bed is big enough for two.”_ _

__She looked over his shoulder at the double-wide mattress. He was technically correct, but only just._ _

__“Close the door,” he said, negating the need for further conversation. “I’ll draw the curtains.”_ _

__He dropped their bags by the door, which she dutifully warded against intruders. The curtains blocked the faint light of the half moon, and Hermione lit a temporary _Lumos_ to help them navigate the unfamiliar space. She averted her eyes as he drew the t-shirt over his head. She crawled into bed beside him and extinguished the light from her wand. _ _

__Despite the lumpy mattress and the musty smell of the blanket, the bed was nicer than anything they’d had in days. Nevertheless, Hermione couldn’t get comfortable. She felt cold despite their shared heat. Her every twitch and turn rustled the sheets, and her breathing sounded like gusts of wind in the silence._ _

__Worst of all, despite Draco resting not an inch away, she felt completely alone._ _

__Hermione stared at the faint gray shadows of the ceiling, silent tears dripping from the corners of her eyes and into her hair. So much had happened over the past few days. They’d been on the move constantly, forced to deal with emergency after emergency. They’d had almost no time alone, no space in which to process._ _

__“Granger?”_ _

__She thought she’d been quiet. She kept her hands at her sides; it was dark, after all, and he couldn’t see her tears. Better if he didn’t know how much she was hurting._ _

__She swallowed enough of her grief to answer him. “Yes?”_ _

__“Are you cold?”_ _

__Hermione bit her tongue to keep from letting lose a sob._ _

__“You’re shivering,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Do you want…”_ _

__She knew what he offered, and knew that she should refuse it. Whatever was building between them could never last. They’d shared too much history. Too much trauma._ _

__But then, Draco was all she had._ _

__When his arm wrapped around her waist, when he tucked her head beneath his chin and nestled her snugly against his chest, Hermione could almost forget who they were and what they’d endured. She could almost imagine a life with him. A small cottage near the sea, a simple life of honest labor and warm words, where she woke to the scent of salt and spice, in the arms of a man who knew her._ _

__She released her breath, relaxed against him, and let herself sink into the dream._ _


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

They flew a circuitous route to London. The morning had dawned cold and gray, and they’d lifted off in a steady drizzle. Around noon, they’d been forced to bypass a storm, abandoning their intended course after a strong gust nearly tore Hermione from her broom.

Much later than expected, the city’s skyscrapers appeared through the twilight mist. It was like something from a science fiction novel: tall towers of gray, sparkling with the faint lights of civilization, with all its attendant promise and threat. Hermione was experienced enough with cities to know that they’d find both. Which they found first would largely be a matter of luck. 

Draco fell into position behind her, allowing her to take point. She’d been to 12 Grimmauld Place more times than she could count but had never approached by air. Landmarks became crucial: the London Zoo, Hampstead Heath just north, and then a slight eastward turn to Highgate Cemetery. 

They dropped in behind a mausoleum overgrown with creeping ivory. They stowed their brooms in their bags and crept out onto one of the cemetery’s many serpentine paths. Hermione drew her hood and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. A sideways look confirmed that Draco had done the same. 

“We’ll need something to get you in,” she muttered. “Something to prove your loyalty.” 

“Showing up with you isn’t enough?” 

She didn’t need to look at him to see his scowl. 

“No. They’ll probably think you’ve Imperiused me.” 

“Like you could be so easily controlled,” he muttered, incredulous. 

Hermione missed a step. The compliment—though somewhat backhanded—surprised her. 

“We’ll need to verify our identities,” she said, choosing to ignore it. “I have my sealskin.” 

A beat of loaded silence passed. “My parents’ wands. Will they accept those?” 

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Yes, I believe they will.” 

They passed beneath the arched entrance to Highgate, the gloom lifting infinitesimally. Hermione turned them south. 

“You’ll be searched,” she said, “and our bags emptied. You’ll undergo Legilimency.” 

Draco huffed a laugh. “That won’t work.” 

Hermione grimaced. Draco’s talent at Occlumency had been only a well-supported rumor until now. 

“You can’t just… Stop?” 

“You sound like Potter,” he said, derisive. “No subtlety. I suppose you think the mind is like a book—” 

“Okay, okay,” she snapped. “They’ll attempt it, at least. Try not to hurt them.” 

Another cynical laugh. “No promises.” 

“Hey.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop in the middle of the pavement. “These are _your_ people now. Your _allies_ ,” she revised at the lift of his brow. “Hurting them won’t help you.” 

“Submitting will?” 

“ _Yes_. They need to trust you. They can’t do that if they think you’re hiding something. You need to be honest with them. I’ll advocate for you as best I can, but you need to understand what you’re walking into. You’ve been fighting against the Order for years. Their suspicion is rational, the same as your side would feel if I decided to defect.” 

“My side would torture and kill you.” 

“And the Order won’t,” she insisted, “however much they might want to. Understanding why you’re coming to them now, the context behind your decision, will help with that.” 

“And if Legilimency doesn’t work?” 

She released his arm and resumed walking, unable to meet his eyes. “You’ll also take Veritaserum.” 

Draco stopped on his own this time. “No.” 

His answer was flat and uncompromising. Unfortunately, so was the requirement. 

“This is not a negotiation.” 

“I won’t take it.” 

“Then you’ll be a prisoner instead of a partner. What are you afraid of them learning?” 

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

His look turned her cold. She reached out to him, a hand on his forearm steadying them both. 

“We’ve all done terrible things in this war,” she said quietly. “Some worse than others. We can’t go back and change it, but we can do better moving forward. The Order is the way forward for you.” 

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched, as if he still hadn’t warmed up to the notion. “Forgive me if I’m not excited to have hostile strangers take liberties with my mind.” 

“They’re not all hostile.” She endured his deadpan look, then continued. “I’ll speak to Kingsley. He may let me perform the questioning under the proper supervision.” 

A faint blush appeared high on his cheekbones. “No.” 

“Why not?”

He shrugged away from her, something tender and sad passing through his eyes. “Because you don’t need to know what I’ve done any more than the Order does.” 

She watched him for a moment, hunched against the rain, hands tucked into his pockets. He didn’t look like a war criminal. He looked anonymous, like if she took her eyes off him for a moment, he’d disappear into the London haze, despite the city’s unusually empty streets. 

But she didn’t lose him. Instead, she caught up, pulling a step ahead as she navigated them through the Borough of Islington. The silence between them was as unshakable as the rain. 

Hermione wondered if she’d been too harsh: promised too little and threatened too much. She understood his fear. Shared it, even. 

The Order would not be happy to see him. The scenarios she’d supplied—verification, Legilimency, Veritaserum—were all assuming that Draco wasn’t killed on sight. He needed to remain behind her, preferably out of sight. She would settle for relatively hidden until she could explain. 

The problems would only spiral from there. That Draco had information on Voldemort was a given. Strategic objectives, locations, number of followers, areas of weakness that the Order could exploit… He might not know everything, but even his ability to confirm some of the Order’s long-held suspicions would be useful. 

They could get what they wanted with Veritaserum. They could lock him up and keep him dosed and talking for as long as they wished. Hermione suspected that this was what Ron would prefer. From a practical perspective, she recognized its merits. Imprisoning Draco and using him as an encyclopedia into Voldemort’s cold war strategy was straightforward, simple, and guaranteed results. 

However, she’d promised Draco some semblance of life. And he’d sacrificed for this war. Lost people he’d loved. He had good reason to turn his back on the hate group he’d been forced into as a child. 

Draco could be an asset to them. Not a spy or a mole; that bridge was quite literally burnt. In a special operations capacity, however? His assistance on raids and sabotage missions could prove invaluable. He’d make a fair scout and an even better assassin. His spellwork was strong, and he’d already shown the proper temperament. He’d been dispassionate when he killed Rowle and hadn’t shown a scrap of remorse over the Carrows or the destruction of Malfoy Manor. 

It might not be the role he imagined or even wanted, but it was practical. A place to start with Kingsley and Harry. 

But it was also selfish. 

Because if Draco were to be sent out into the field, he’d need a handler. 

And who better to mind him than Hermione? 

She wasn’t a fool: working with Draco wouldn’t be easy. Everything that made him an effective killer—his detachment, his pragmatism, his capacity for violence—also made him a liability. As his handler, she would be held accountable for the decisions he made. But there was no one better equipped to handle him. She had started to understand his moods, how far she could push before he began to fray. She had the patience to endure his rages, the nerve to confront him, and was developing the good sense necessary to know when each approach was warranted. The fact that he had followed her to London and was about to walk into the headquarters of what had, until a few days ago, been an enemy organization demonstrated the strength of the trust between them. 

Was the trust between them complete? No. But it was more than he could claim with anyone else in the Order. 

And if Hermione were with him, then her time as a courier would come to an end. 

The idea of it brought pinprick tears to her eyes. Seven years on the move. Countless journeys up, down, and around the British Isles. No home base, no bed, and no stability. 

Draco could change that. 

Draco could change _everything_. 

Hope was a warm breeze against her cheeks, lessening the weight across her shoulders and hurrying her feet. Visions of _after_ bloomed like flowers from once-salted earth. Harry, Ron, and Ginny, relaxing and laughing in a sunny garden. Spring weddings and winter newborns, gifts that couldn’t be loved with the same abandon in a world with this much uncertainty. Warm arms pulling her close, holding her tight, welcoming her home. 

All of it, just one block away. 

But something wasn’t right. 

Pedestrian traffic had disappeared. The streets were silent, and an ominous haze hung low in the sky, darker than a rain cloud and smelling faintly of ash. Dread crept upon her, an inescapable frost. 

Draco’s fingers found her elbow. “Granger…” 

“Keep walking,” she muttered. “Don’t stop and don’t gawk.” 

Well-intentioned advice that she could barely follow herself. Her footsteps slowed as they passed the turnoff to Grimmauld Place. Several bands of blue and white police tape crisscrossed the street, tied between two lamp posts and sagging in the damp. She allowed herself no more than a cursory glance beyond the police line, but that was enough to confirm it. The once formidable townhouses that had lined either side of the street were gone. All that remained were a few, charred pieces of framing, jutting up from the blackened ground like broken bones. 

Grimmauld Place had been razed.

Draco tugged at her arm, kept her moving, and they walked in stiff silence until Hermione spotted a corner market. Its windows were boarded, but a hand-drawn _Open_ sign had been taped to the door jamb. A young boy swept shattered glass into a dustbin, his eyes red-rimmed and wide. His father was on his knees near the till, reorganizing his displaced inventory and binning what was no longer salable. 

“What happened?” she asked, the question little more than a croak. 

He looked up at her. Heavy bags dragged beneath his bloodshot eyes, but his gaze was hard, equally exhausted and angry. 

“Get out.” 

“What?”

“Out.” He pointed at the door. “Right now, or else I’ll call the police.” 

“I didn’t mean…” 

“Out!” 

Hermione stumbled back a step, then turned, hurrying from the shop. Behind her, the man had started sobbing, his grief low and grating over the tinkle of broken glass. 

Draco caught her arm once more. Tucked under his left arm arm was a paper. She couldn’t remember him paying for it. She opened her mouth, turned back toward the shop, but he pulled her away before she could argue. 

“We have bigger things to worry about right now.” 

He looked both ways before crossing the empty street, steering them toward a small park. They abandoned the path a few yards in. Draco pulled her beneath a large tree and handed her the paper. 

_London Bombed: Capital City Hardest Hit in Latest Bout of Terror Attacks_

She looked up at him. She’d seen these words before. Knew their meanings. But the order in which she read them, what they meant… The headline didn’t make sense. 

“What… What is this?” 

“It’s them. Hermione, it’s _them_.”

She shook her head, looked back down at the paper. “No,” she said. “No, it can’t be.” 

Her eyes skipped the article’s fine print, down to a bulleted list of locations. South Kensington, London. Fulham, London. Castlefield, Manchester. Bearsden, Glasgow. Brow drawn, she waited for the pieces to slot together. 

“These were all suspected locations.” Draco tapped the list with a finger. “They didn’t know, so they…” He paused, voice turning bitter as he finished. “So they got them all.” 

“All…” She flipped to the second page, filled with black and white photographs, still lifes of wrecked cities. 

_All_.

Her knees buckled. 

Draco caught her, an arm around her waist keeping her aloft. 

“Steady there. Steady.” 

“You knew…” She slurred against his chest. 

“ _No_.” He took her by the shoulders, tried to look into her eyes. “No, I didn’t. I knew about London like you knew about the Isle of Man, but I couldn’t have known about this. I’ve been with you. Hermione,” he caught her eyes. “I’m with _you_.” 

Her head spun as the only other possibility presented itself. 

“Scabior,” she whispered. “We didn’t kill him.” 

Draco paled. His hands fell from her shoulders, trailed limply down her arms. “His skull had cracked. I didn’t think…” 

“He must’ve survived long enough to Apparate back, or at least send a message along.” Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to stem her tears. 

This was her fault.

How long had she been fighting? How long had she been traveling, careful to cover each of her tracks? Hermione knew better than to leave a loose end. She’d long understood that there was no place for mercy in war, but they’d been so eager to leave. They’d _needed_ to leave. 

And now… 

She lowered her hands and looked into Draco’s eyes. Four people were permanently stationed at Grimmauld Place: Kingsley, Ginny, Ron, and Harry. 

“What time did this happen?” 

Draco skimmed the paper. “Explosions were heard at approximately midnight two nights ago.” 

Hermione nodded, the numbness settling quickly. Curfew was at ten p.m. All four would have been in bed. 

“It’s done,” she said, voice hoarse. “The Order is done.” 

“What do you mean, done?”

“Done. Over.” She pushed away from him, unsteady but needing the space. “Harry was all we had, our only hope. The Dark Lord is out there with a single scrap of soul and no one to take it from him.” 

“You don’t know—”

“I _know_ ,” she snapped. Now was not the time to explain the weight of prophecy or the weavings of fate. He had to trust her. “We can interrupt supply lines and infiltrate governments all we want, but without someone to deliver the final blow, none of it matters. It’s always going to be this.” 

She looked around her, at a world that had shifted off its axis but kept spinning nevertheless. What was the point of continuing to fight? It was a Sisyphean task now, constant effort without the hope of reward. The last seven years, the next seven… None of it had meant anything. None of it ever would.

“Hey.” Draco shook her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “We need a next step.” 

“There is no next step. Why can’t you understand that? It’s over.”

“Not for us. Hermione…” He lifted her chin with a finger, his eyes oddly bright. “We can disappear.” 

The notion was contrary to everything she’d ever lived. As such, her refusal was unthinking and immediate. “We can’t.” 

“They think we’re dead.” He looked over his shoulder, through the slats in the park fence where the shell of 12 Grimmauld Place barely stood. “They hit these locations because they thought they were hitting _us_. Why correct them?” 

“It can’t work.” 

“Why not? This is our chance, Hermione, don’t you see it?” His voice was low and urgent. “You said you were fighting for Potter, but Potter’s dead. There’s nothing left to fight for, so why not disappear? Why not try for a normal life?” 

“They’ll find us.” 

“Not if we’re smart. And even if they do, it will take time.” 

“It won’t last.”

“I don’t care. I’ll take whatever I can get for as long as I can get it. A life outside of this war, a chance to live and die on my own terms instead of someone else’s.” 

He must have seen the crack in her resolve. He stepped close, brought his hands to cup her cheeks. “We could do it,” he whispered, breath puffing over her nose. “We could survive this together. We need a place, somewhere quiet to rest and regroup. And after that…” 

Draco’s eyes closed, and he rested his forehead against hers. 

After that, he didn’t know. And neither did she. But it was better than staying here. 

His eyes opened when she took his hand. Gazes locked, she imagined the smell of salt. The crash of waves against a rocky shore. The sight of dingy, whitewashed walls, a dark gray roof, and a faded blue fence. 

They disappeared with a crack.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Seven years later…_

The cold woke Hermione first. 

That the chilly air had penetrated the flannel sheets didn’t bode well for what was awaiting her beyond the confines of her bed. She snuggled down deeper into the pillow, tucking her nose under the blanket and trying for a return to unconsciousness. 

But her rustling had woken her bedfellow. Or perhaps he’d already been awake. Draco was a poor sleeper on the best of days, turning in late, resting fitfully, and rising early. He only lingered when he wanted something. And as his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close, she knew immediately what that _something_ was: his erection pressed firmly against her bum. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she murmured. 

His breath puffed against her bare neck, followed by the press of his lips. Hermione kept her hair short now, her once wild curls smoothed into waves by a pixie cut, which she diligently trimmed whenever she started to recognize herself. 

“Fire burned out last night,” Draco said. “My fault. Didn’t feed it enough.” 

“So this is selfish,” she teased. “You were cold and wanted to get warm.” 

“No, this is noble. You were shivering, and I wanted to warm _you_.” His hand drifted from her stomach to her breast, his fingers finding her left nipple and teasing it to a peak. “How am I doing?” 

She shifted her rear against him. “I’ve had better.” 

He tweaked her nipple, then trailed his hand back down her body. He loosened the drawstring tie of her cotton pajama pants with a single pull and worked his hand beneath the elastic. Hermione rolled half onto her back to open her legs and let him explore her. She closed her eyes and drifted, losing herself in the sensation. His fingers were slick and nimble against her clit, flicking and rubbing at a pace he knew she liked. 

He brought her to climax slowly that first time. The release rolled through her like fog over a heath, patient and heavy. 

Draco withdrew his hand and tugged at the waist of her pajamas. She arched her hips, lazy in the early hour, letting him do the work. When she opened her eyes, she found their bedroom bathed in the soft light of an overcast October morning. Draco knelt between her tented knees, his cock erect. 

He made a fine fisherman. His hair had grown out, hanging about his shoulders on the rare occasion he left it loose from its typical bun-and-cap. His beard had come in thick: a blond two shades darker than his signature platinum, disguising the point of his chin and the jut of his cheekbones. It was a face she knew as well as her own by now. 

A face she’d grown to love. 

Hermione reached a hand toward his cock, and he shuddered as she stroked him, eyes closed, head tipped back. But even his patience had limits. Draco pressed his hips into her hand, leaning himself forward as she relaxed against her pillow. His body dwarfed hers, and she let her fingers dance over the corded muscles in his arms and shoulders. He rocked against her, teasing, rubbing his warm length against the cleft of her sex. She shifted the angle of her hips, catching his head, and he took the invitation. 

Draco entered her slowly, and though she was ready for him, she breathed through the adjustment. The size of him was not something she ever wanted to get used to, his girth spreading her wide, his length fitting her perfectly. She moaned as their hips finally met, and his breath shuddered over her lips as he began to move, filling the hollow spaces within her. 

Their lovemaking was languid, both soft and intentional. She captured his lips in a kiss and breathed him in, matching his movements with her own and enjoying the gradual build. He held himself off her with one hand as the other worked her nipple, gentle flicks and tugs that sent frissons of pleasure tingling through her. She felt the loss when his hand trailed from her breast to beneath her, his grip tightening. 

“Hang on to me.” Instructions, voiced low. Her grip on his shoulders tightened. With what felt like no effort at all, he sat them up. 

Gravity brought her down around him, their angle shifting so that her clit rubbed against his pelvis, and his cock rubbed against some secret, sensitive place within her. Assuming control, she rocked her hips against him. Her pace was faster than what he’d set, her movements greedy and pleasure-seeking. Both of his hands were on her breasts now, kneading and tugging as she worked herself against him. His beard scratched against her skin as he trailed kisses along her collarbone and up her neck. 

Her name: a whisper, a warning, but above all, a secret. 

“Hermione…” 

She felt herself tighten around him, the pressure welling, the muscles of her core on a hair-trigger set to explode. 

“Again,” she whispered. 

“Hermione.” 

His fingers pressed into the skin of her hips, rocking her forward and back, increasing the friction, the tempo. She felt his cock grow impossibly larger within her, thick and ready. 

“Now, Draco.” 

He moaned into her shoulder like a man starving. 

“ _Now_.” 

A final, deep thrust spelled his end. Draco came inside of her, his cock pumping with each wave of release, and his pleasure was the catch that loosed her own. She clenched around him as a second orgasm overtook her, wiping away everything but him. The salt-taste of his skin. The musk of his release. The strength of his arms. The way he said her name. How he risked it for her. 

How they risked it for each other. 

Because that’s what this was: time stolen in a world from which they’d chosen to disconnect. The destruction of the Order had indeed been its death knell, and Voldemort’s ascendance was completed soon after. Their names—their true identities—were hidden by necessity but bared to each other in these moments of intimacy, where she, at least, could embrace who she was and what she’d done while remaining separate from the guilt of it. 

In her new life, Hermione didn’t crusade for the rights of others or fight against a pernicious evil. She was just a young woman who worked in the Helmsdale café, quiet, bookish, and a little sad. People called her Jean, if they knew her name at all. And Draco—Louis, now—was no longer a man held hostage by powers he couldn’t overcome. He had joined a fishing boat crew, earning calluses on his palms and the respect of his crew mates. They had hidden their wands beneath a stone in front of their shared hearth; in seven years, they had found no reason to draw them. Magic no longer had a presence in their lives. 

At least not the type they’d grown up knowing. 

The magic they claimed now was found in each other. In how they came together, when every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. In how they separated, when Hermione would cook breakfast and Draco would head out back to split wood for their fire. In how they lived as an ordinary couple, with pasts they didn’t discuss and a future they tried not to plan. 

Hermione rested her head upon Draco’s shoulder, skin prickling with gooseflesh as he trailed his fingers up and down her back. 

“Will you swim today?” 

She heard the catch in his tone and pushed herself up, searching his eyes and finding a familiar fear buried within the storm cloud gray. 

Hermione thought suddenly of her grandfather, who had stolen her grandmother’s sealskin and kept it hidden for most of her life. At the time, Hermione had thought his actions cruel. 

Now, she knew better. 

Her grandfather was right to be distrustful, not of her grandmother, but of the sea. It was a wild place, unpredictable, moving with forces that were beyond her control and teeming with predators that were far more lethal than a common harbor seal. One mistake was all it would’ve taken. One chance encounter would have undone their entire lives. Everything they had built, everything they had hoped to build. 

Hermione and Draco had already lived one undoing, and they had clung to one another in the void. To risk another felt unconscionable. Without her, Draco would have no one. And without him, Hermione would be lost. 

She smiled and pressed her lips to his, a reassurance and a promise. She wouldn’t swim today. She wouldn’t swim for the rest of the year. The parts of her that yearned for freedom—which ached for flight and purpose and the grand ideations of youth—had been worn smooth, finally weathered by time and tide.

**The End**


End file.
